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THE  RED  HORIZON 

PATRICK        MACGILL 


THE 

RED  HORIZON 


AUTHOR  OF  "THE  RAT-PIT," 

"CHILDREN  OF  THE  DEAD  END," 

ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1916, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED   IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 
THE  LONDON  IRISH 

TO   THE    SPIRIT   OF   THOSE    WHO    FIGHT   AND    TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF  THOSE  WHO  HAVE  PASSED  AWAY 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 


2060933 


FOREWORD 


To  PATRICK 

Rifleman  No.  3008,  London  Irish. 

DEAR  PATRICK  MAcGiu,, 

There  is  open  in  France  a  wonderful  exhibi- 
tion of  the  work  of  the  many  gallant  artists 
who  have  been  serving  in  the  French  trenches 
through  the  long  months  of  the  War. 

There  is  not  a  young  writer,  painter,  or 
sculptor  of  French  blood,  who  is  not  risking  his 
life  for  his  country.  Can  we  make  the  same 
proud  boast? 

When  I  recruited  you  into  the  London  Irish  — 
one  of  those  splendid  regiments  that  London 
has  sent  to  Sir  John  French,  himself  an  Irish- 
man —  it  was  with  gratitude  and  pride. 

You  had  much  to  give  us.  The  rare  experi- 
ences of  your  boyhood,  your  talents,  your  bril- 
liant hopes  for  the  future.  Upon  all  these  the 


8  Foreword 

Western  hills  and  loughs  of  your  native  Donegal 
seemed  to  have  a  prior  claim.  But  you  gave 
them  to  London  and  to  our  London  Territorials. 
It  was  an  example  and  a  symbol. 

The  London  Irish  will  be  proud  of  their 
young  artist  in  words,  and  he  will  for  ever  be 
proud  of  the  London  Irish  Regiment,  its  deeds 
and  valour,  to  which  he  has  dedicated  such  great 
gifts.  May  God  preserve  you. 

Yours  sincerely, 


President  County  of  London 
Callender.  Territorial  Association. 

1  6th  September,  1915. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


I.  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  REGIMENT    ...  13 

II.  SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE  .....  ig 

III.  OUR  FRENCH  BILLETS 30 

IV.  THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  TRENCHES        .        .  43 
V.  FIRST   BLOOD 49 

VI.  IN  THE  TRENCHES 69 

VII.  BLOOD  AND  IRON — AND  DEATH        .        .        .87 

VIII.  TERRORS  OF  THE  NIGHT 108 

IX.  THE  DUG-OUT  BANQUET 114 

X.  A  NOCTURNAL  ADVENTURE      ....  128 

XL  THE  MAN  WITH  THE  ROSARY  ....  136 

XII.  THE  SHELLING  OF  THE  KEEP  ....  147 

XIII.  A  NIGHT  OF  HORROR 173 

XIV.  A  FIELD  OF  BATTLE 198 

XV.  THE  REACTION  .  '    -.. 207 

XVI.  PEACE  AND  WAR 214 

XVII.  EVERYDAY  LIFE  AT  THE  FRONT        .        .        .  226 

XVIII.  THE  COVERING  PARTY 247 

XIX.  SOUVENIR  HUNTERS 262 

XX.  THE  WOMEN  OF  FRANCE 277 

XXL  IN  THE  WATCHES  OF  THE  NIGHT  .        .        .  290 

XXII.  ROMANCE 298 


THE   RED   HORIZON 


THE  RED  HORIZON 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   PASSING  OF  THE  REGIMENT 

I  wish  the  sea  were  not  so  wide 
That  parts  me  from  my  love; 
I  wish  the  things  men  do  below 
Were  known  to  God  above. 

I  wish  that  I  were  back  again 
In  the  glens  of  Donegal; 
They'll  call  me  coward  if  I  return, 
But  a  hero  if  I  fall. 

"Is  it  better  to  be  a  living  coward, 

Or  thrice  a  hero  dead  ?" 
"It's  better  to  go  to  sleep,  my  lad," 

The  Colour  Sergeant  said. 

NIGHT,  a  grey  troubled  sky  and  no  moon 
or  stars.    We  lined  up  on  the  wharf, 
hundreds  of  men  in  khaki  ready  to 
embark  on  the  most  momentous  journey  of  our 
lives.     A  troopship  was  just  putting  off  with 
soldiers  on  board  blocking  up  the  deck  and  cheer- 
ing back  in  answer  to  the  cheers  with  which  we 
heartened  them.    Ours  is  an  Irish  regiment,  and 
Irish  pipers  on  the  pier  played  The  Wearing  of 
the  Green  and  I'm  off  to  Philadelphia  in  the 

13 


14  The  Red  Horizon 

Morning.  No  one  was  about  save  soldiers  and 
sailors,  the  public  was  not  admitted,  and  women 
were  entirely  absent. 

Cheers  and  cheers  followed  our  mates  who 
were  already  going  away,  and  cheers  went  out 
in  greeting  to  the  ship  that  was  just  coming  in 
for  us,  the  second  half  of  the  battalion.  The 
temperament  of  the  men  was  a  merry  one;  they 
were  ready  to  laugh  at  anything,  pass  jokes  and 
indulge  in  banter.  A  journey  from  the  Bank 
to  Charing  Cross  might  be  undertaken  with  a 
more  serious  air;  it  looked  for  all  the  world 
as  if  they  were  merely  out  on  some  night  frolic, 
and  were  determined  to  throw  the  whole  mad 
vitality  of  youth  into  the  escapade. 

Once  on  board  we  were  ordered  below  into  a 
low-roofed  cabin  lighted  with  two  electric  lamps, 
the  floor  being  covered  with  sawdust.  Equip- 
ments were  hung  from  pegs  on  the  sides, 
a  gun-rack  ran  along  the  centre,  and  rifles 
.  were  placed,  their  butts  down  and  muzzles  in 
line,  stretching  in  two  parallel  rows  from  stern 
to  cabin-entrance.  On  the  benches  along  the 
sides  the  men  took  up  their  seats,  each  man 
under  his  equipment,  and  by  right  of  the 
equipment  hanging  overhead  claiming  the  place 
during  the  whole  voyage. 


The  Passing  of  the  Regiment      15 

Presently  all  were  smoking,  we  soldiers  love 
my  Lady  Nicotine,  and  forthwith  our  cabin 
was  dim  with  tobacco  smoke.  It  was  almost 
impossible  to  see  the  man  next  to  you  through 
the  haze;  anyone  three  yards  away  was  in- 
visible. But  all  were  making  themselves  heard 
in  song  and  joke  which  turned  into  groans  of 
despair  when  the  order  to  smoke  no  more  came 
along. 

"Good  job,  too,"  someone  who  was  coughing 
remarked. 

"Then  we'll  smoke  on  deck,"  another  replied. 

"No  smoking  means  no  smoking,"  a  sergeant 
said,  putting  his  pipe  slowly  into  his  tunic 
pocket,  a  job  he  did  not  like  to  judge  by  his 
face.  "You  can't  smoke  on  deck  because  all 
lights  must  be  out  when  we're  crossing  to  the 
other  side." 

Rations  were  served  out  at  nine  o'clock,  every 
man  got  four  biscuits  (dog-biscuits  the  men 
christened  them),  hard  as  iron  almost  and  not 
very  palatable;  but  it  is  stated  that  one  gets 
used  to  these  and  enjoys  them  greatly  in  the 
course  of  time.  Bully-beef,  cheese,  tea,  sugar, 
and  marmalade  were  issued;  hot  water  was 
given  to  anybody  who  looked  for  it  in  the 
galley.  Teas  were  made,  and  beef,  biscuits, 


16  The  Red  Horizon 

and  cheese  were  eaten.  It  was  indeed  a  jolly 
meal,  although  one  or  two  were  already  very 
sick  and  wondering  why  the  ship  had  taken  into 
her  being  such  leaping  and  diving  capers. 

A  goodly  number  of  the  men  had  never  been 
on  the  sea  before,  and  one  or  two  of  my  mates 
in  company  drill  had  never  even  seen  it. 
Londoners  born  and  bred  they  were,  too,  who, 
although  they  had  often  seen  a  dirty  Thames, 
ditched  at  Blackfriars  Bridge  by  a  high  tide, 
had  never  set  eyes  on  the  outer  waters  which 
can  for  a  moment  stay  the  roving  of  the 
Cockney's  river. 

Food  having  been  taken,  many  of  the  men  had 
a  general  clean-up,  a  wash  and  a  shave.  The 
latter  was  a  ticklish  job,  and  the  manipulation  of 
the  razor  required  acrobatic  dexterity.  Some 
took  off  their  hats  and  donned  Balaclava  helmets, 
which  they  wrapped  round  their  brows  and  over 
their  eyes  and  ears.  Nearly  all  carried  these 
helmets;  they  are  very  warm,  and  on  cold 
nights  make  sleep  a  delight.  About  ten  o'clock 
I  went  on  deck.  The  sky  had  cleared  somewhat 
and  a  few  stars  shone  soberly  as  if  ashamed  of 
being  so  much  alone  in  the  sky.  I  looked  across 
the  water,  and  in  the  distance  I  could  see 


The  Passing  of  the  Regiment      17 

something  dark  and  apparently  stationary  on 
the  waves. 

"It's  been  with  us  since  we  left,"  said  my  mate, 
the  blue-eyed  Jersey  youth,  coming  up  to  my 
side  at  that  moment. 

"The  destroyer?"  I  asked  him. 

"Yes!"  he  answered.  "It  will  be  with  us  all 
night.  It  will  be  a  hard  nut  for  a  submarine  to 
attack  it  or  us,"  he  continued.  "We're  as  safe 
here  now  as  at  home." 

At  midnight  most  of  the  men  were  asleep. 
Despite  the  order  to  the  contrary,  one  or  two 
were  smoking,  and  as  the  lights  had  been  turned 
off  the  cigarettes  glowed  red  through  the  gloom. 
The  sleepers  lay  in  every  conceivable  position, 
some  with  faces  turned  upwards,  jaws  hanging 
loosely  and  tongues  stretching  over  the  lower 
lips;  some  with  knees  curled  up  and  heads  bent, 
frozen  stiff  in  the  midst  of  a  grotesque  move- 
ment; some  with  hands  clasped  tightly  over 
their  breasts,  and  others  with  their  fingers  bent 
as  if  trying  to  clutch  at  something  beyond  their 
reach.  A  few  slumbered  with  their  heads  on 
their  rifles,  more  had  their  heads  on  the  saw- 
dust-covered floor,  and  these  sent  the  sawdust 
fluttering  whenever  they  breathed.  The  atmos- 
phere of  the  place  was  close  and  almost  suffo- 


i8  The  Red  Horizon 

eating.  Now  and  again  someone  coughed  and 
spluttered  as  if  he  were  going  to  choke.  Per- 
spiration stood  out  in  little  beads  on  the  temples 
of  the  sleepers,  and  they  turned  round  from  time 
to  time  to  raise  their  Balaclava  helmets  higher 
over  their  eyes. 

And  so  the  night  wore  on.  What  did  they 
dream  of  lying  there?  I  wondered.  Of  their 
journey  and  the  perils  that  lay  before  them?  Of 
the  glory  or  the  horror  of  the  war?  Of  their 
friends  whom,  perhaps,  they  would  never  see 
again?  It  was  impossible  to  tell.  The  hour  was 
now  past  midnight  and  a  new  day  had  come. 
What  did  it  hold  for  us  all?  Nobody  knew — I 
fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  II 

SOMEWHERE   IN    FRANCE 

When  I  come  back  to  England, 

And  times  of  Peace  come  round, 
I'll  surely  have  a  shilling, 

And  maybe  have  a  pound. 
I'll  walk  the  whole  town  over, 

And  who  shall  say  me  nay, 
For  I'm  a  British  soldier 

With  a  British  soldier's  pay. 

THE  Rest  Camp,  a  city  of  innumerable 
bell-tents,  stood  on  the  summit  of  a  hill 
overlooking  the  town  and  the  sea  be- 
yond. We  marched  up  from  the  quay  in  the  early 
morning,  followed  the  winding  road  paved  with 
treacherous  cobbles  that  glory  in  tripping  unwary 
feet,  and  sweated  to  the  summit  of  the  hill. 
Here  a  new  world  opened  to  our  eyes:  a  canvas 
city,  the  mushroom  growth  of  our  warring 
times  lay  before  us;  tent  after  tent,  large  and 
small,  bell-tent  and  marquee  in  accurate  align- 
ment. 

It  took  us  two  hours  to  march  to  our  places; 

we  grounded  arms  at  the  word  of  command  and 

19 


20  The  Red  Horizon 

sank  on  our  packs  wearily  happy.  True,  a  few 
had  fallen  out;  they  came  in  as  we  rested  and 
awkwardly  fell  into  position.  They  were  men 
who  had  been  sea-sick  the  night  before.  We 
were  too  excited  to  rest  for  long;  like  dogs  in 
a  new  locality  we  were  presently  nosing  round 
looking  for  food.  Two  hours  march  in  full 
marching  order  makes  men  hungry,  and  hungry 
men  are  ardent  explorers.  The  dry  and  wet 
canteens  faced  one  another,  and  each  was  capa- 
ble of  accommodating  a  hundred  men.  Never 
were  canteens  crowded  so  quickly,  never  have 
hundreds  of  the  hungry  and  drouthy  clamoured 
so  eagerly  for  admission  as  on  that  day.  But 
time  worked  marvels;  at  the  end  of  an  hour  we 
fell  in  again  outside  a  vast  amount  of  victuals, 
and  the  sea-sickness  of  the  previous  night,  and 
the  strain  of  the  morning's  march  were  things 
over  which  now  we  could  be  humorously  remi- 
niscent. 

Sheepskin  jackets,  the  winter  uniform  of  the 
trenches,  were  served  out  to  us,  and  all  were 
tried  on.  They  smelt  of  something  chemical  and 
unpleasant,  but  were  very  warm  and  quite  polar 
in  appearance. 

"Wish  my  mother  could  see  me  now,"  Bill 


Somewhere  in  France  21 

the  Cockney  remarked.  "My,  she  wouldn't 
think  me  'alf  a  cove.  It's  a  balmy.  I  discovered 
the  South  Pole,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"More  like  you're  up  the  pole!"  someone  cut 
in,  then  continued,  "If  they  saw  us  at  St.  Albans* 
now!  Bet  yer  they  wouldn't  say  as  we're  for 
home  service." 

That  night  we  slept  in  bell-tents,  fourteen  men 
in  each,  packed  tight  as  herrings  in  a  barrel, 
our  feet  festooning  the  base  of  the  central  pole, 
our  heads  against  the  lower  rim  of  the  canvas 
covering.  Movement  was  almost  an  impossi- 
bility; a  leg  drawn  tight  in  a  cramp  disturbed 
the  whole  fabric  of  slumbering  humanity;  the 
man  who  turned  round  came  in  for  a  shower  of 
maledictions.  In  short,  fourteen  men  lying  down 
in  a  bell-tent  cannot  agree  for  very  long,  and 
a  bell-tent  is  not  a  paradise  of  sympathy  and 
mutual  agreement. 

We  rose  early,  washed  and  shaved,  and  found 
our  way  to  the  canteen,  a  big  marquee  under  the 
control  of  the  Expeditionary  Force,  where  bread 
and  butter,  bacon  and  tea  were  served  out  for 
breakfast.  Soldiers  recovering  from  wounds 
worked  as  waiters,  and  told,  when  they  had  a 

*It  was  at  St.  Albans  that  we  underwent  most  of  our 
training. 


22  The  Red  Horizon 

moment  to  spare,  of  hair-breadth  adventures  in 
the  trenches.  They  found  us  willing  listeners; 
they  had  lived  for  long  in  the  locality  for  which 
we  were  bound,  and  the  whole  raw  regiment 
had  a  personal  interest  in  the  narratives  of  the 
wounded  men.  Bayonet  -  charges  were  dis- 
cussed. 

"I've  been  in  three  of  'em,"  remarked  a 
quiet,  inoffensive-looking  youth  who  was  sweep- 
ing the  floor  of  the  room.  "They  were  a  bit  'ot, 
but  nothin'  much  to  write  'ome  about.  Not 
like  a  picture  in  the  papers,  none  of  them  wasn't. 
Not  much  stickin'  of  men.  You  just  'ops  out 
of  your  trench  and  rush  and  roar  like  'ell. 
The  Germans  fire  and  then  run  off,  and  it's  all 


over." 


After  breakfast  feet  were  inspected  by  the 
medical  officer.  We  sat  down  on  our  packs  in 
the  parade  ground,  took  off  our  boots,  and 
shivered  with  cold.  The  day  was  raw,  the  wind 
sharp  and  penetrating ;  we  forgot  that  our  sheep- 
skins smelt  vilely,  and  snuggled  into  them,  glad 
of  their  warmth.  The  M.O.  asked  questions: 
"Do  your  boots  pinch?"  "Any  blisters?"  "Do 
you  wear  two  pairs  of  socks?"  &c.,  &c.  Two 
thousand  feet  passed  muster,  and  boots  were  put 
on  again. 


Somewhere  in  France  23 

The  quartermaster's  stores  claimed  our  atten- 
tion afterwards,  and  the  attendants  there  were 
almost  uncannily  kind.  "Are  you  sure  you've 
got  everything  you  want?"  they  asked  us. 
"There  mayn't  be  a  chance  to  get  fitted  up  after 
this."  Socks,  pull-throughs,  overcoats,  regi- 
mental buttons,  badges,  hats,  tunics,  oil-bottles, 
gloves,  puttees,  and  laces  littered  the  floor 
and  were  piled  on  the  benches.  We  took 
what  we  required;  no  one  superintended  our 
selection. 

At  St.  Albans,  where  we  had  been  turned  into 
soldiers,  we  often  stood  for  hours  waiting  until 
the  quartermaster  chose  to  give  us  a  few  inches 
of  rifle-rag;  here  a  full  uniform  could  be  ob- 
tained by  picking  it  up.  And  our  men  were 
wise  in  selecting  only  necessities;  they  still  re- 
membered the  march  of  the  day  before.  All 
took  sparingly  and  chose  wisely.  Fancy  socks 
were  passed  by  in  silence,  the  homely  woollen 
article,  however,  was  in  great  demand.  Bond 
Street  was  forgotten.  The  "nut"  was  a  being 
of  a  past  age,  or,  if  he  still  existed,  he 
was  undergoing  a  complete  transformation. 
Also  he  knew  what  socks  were  best  for  the 
trenches. 

At  noon  we  were  again  ready  to  set  out  on 


24  The  Red  Horizon 

our  journey.  A  tin  of  bully-beef  and  six  biscuits, 
hard  as  rocks,  were  given  to  each  man  prior 
to  departure.  Sheepskins  were  rolled  into  shape 
and  fastened  on  the  tops  of  our  packs,  and 
with  this  additional  burden  on  the  shoulder 
we  set  out  from  the  rest-camp  and  took  our 
course  down  the  hill.  On  the  way  we  met  an- 
other regiment  coming  up  to  fill  our  place,  to 
sleep  in  our  bell-tents,  pick  from  the  socks 
which  we  had  left  behind,  and  to  meet  for  once, 
the  first  and  last  time  perhaps,  a  quartermaster 
who  is  really  kind  in  the  discharge  of  his  pro- 
fessional duties.  We  marched  off,  and  sang 
our  way  into  the  town  and  station.  Our  trucks 
were  already  waiting,  an  endless  number  they 
seemed,  lined  up  in  the  siding  with  an  engine 
in  front  and  rear,  and  the  notice  "hommes  40 
chevaux  20"  in  white  letters  on  every  door. 
The  night  before  I  had  slept  in  a  bell-tent  where 
a  man's  head  pointed  to  each  seam  in  the  can- 
vas, to-night  it  seemed  as  if  I  should  sleep,  if 
that  were  possible,  in  a  still  more  crowded 
place,  where  we  had  now  barely  standing  room, 
and  where  it  was  difficult  to  move  about.  But 
a  much-desired  relief  came  before  the  train 
started,  spare  waggons  were  shunted  on,  and  a 
number  of  men  were  taken  from  each  compart- 


Somewhere  in  France  25 

ment  and  given  room  elsewhere.  In  fact,  when 
we  moved  off  we  had  only  twenty-two  soldiers 
in  our  place,  quite  enough  though  when  our 
equipment,  pack,  rifle,  bayonet,  haversack,  over- 
coat, and  sheepskin  tunic  were  taken  into  ac- 
count. 

A  bale  of  hay  bound  with  wire  was  given  to 
us  for  bedding,  and  bully-beef,  slightly  flavoured, 
and  biscuits  were  doled  out  for  rations.  Some 
of  us  bought  oranges,  which  were  very  dear, 
and  paid  three  halfpence  apiece  for  them;  choco- 
late was  also  obtained,  and  one  or  two  adventu- 
rous spirits  stole  out  to  the  street,  contrary  to 
orders,  and  bought  cafe  au  lait  and  pain  et 
beurre,  drank  the  first  in  the  estaminet,  and  came 
back  to  their  trucks  munching  the  latter. 

At  noon  we  started  out  on  the  journey  to  the 
trenches,  a  gay  party  that  found  expression  for 
its  young  vitality  in  song.  The  sliding-doors 
and  the  windows  were  open;  those  of  us  who 
were  not  looking  out  of  the  one  were  looking 
out  of  the  other.  To  most  it  was  a  new  country, 
a  place  far  away  in  peace  and  a  favourite  resort 
of  the  wealthy;  but  now  a  country  that  called 
for  any  man,  no  matter  how  poor,  if  he  were 
strong  in  person  and  willing  to  give  his  life 
away  when  called  upon  to  do  so.  In  fact,  the 


26  The  Red  Horizon 

poor  man  was  having  his  first  holiday  on  the 
Continent,  and  alas! — perhaps  his  last:  and  like 
cattle  new  to  the  pasture  fields  in  Spring,  we 
were  surging  full  of  life  and  animal  gaiety. 

We  were  out  on  a  great  adventure,  full  of  thrill 
and  excitement;  the  curtain  which  surrounded 
our  private  life  was  being  lifted;  we  stood  on  the 
threshold  of  momentous  events.  The  cottagers 
who  laboured  by  their  humble  homes  stood  for  a 
moment  and  watched  our  train  go  by;  now  and 
again  a  woman  shouted  out  a  blessing  on  our 
mission,  and  ancient  men  seated  by  their  door- 
steps pointed  in  the  direction  our  train  was  going, 
and  drew  lean,  skinny  hands  across  their  throats, 
and  yelled  advice  and  imprecations  in  hoarse 
voices.  We  understood.  The  ancient  warriors 
ordered  us  to  cut  the  Kaiser's  throat  and  envied 
us  the  job. 

The  day  wore  on,  the  evening  fell  dark  and 
stormy.  A  cold  wind  from  somewhere  swept  in 
through  chinks  in  windows  and  door,  and  chilled 
the  compartment.  The  favourite  song,  Uncle 
Joe,  with  its  catching  chorus, 


When  Uncle  Joe  plays  a  rag  upon  his  old  banjo, 
Eberybody  starts  a-swaying  to  and  fro, 
Mummy  waddles  all  around  the  cabin  floor, 
Yellin',  Uncle  Joe,  give  us  more,  give  us  more, 


Somewhere  in  France  27 

died  away  into  a  melancholy  whimper.  Some- 
times one  of  the  men  would  rise,  open  the 
window  and  look  out  at  a  passing  hamlet, 
where  lights  glimmered  in  the  houses  and  heavy 
waggons  lumbered  along  the  uneven  street, 
whistle  an  air  into  the  darkness  and  close  the 
window  again.  My  mate  had  an  electric  torch — 
by  its  light  we  opened  the  biscuit  box  handed 
in  when  we  left  the  station,  and  biscuits  and 
bully-beef  served  to  make  a  rather  comfortless 
supper.  At  ten  o'clock,  when  the  torch  refused 
to  burn,  and  when  we  found  ourselves  short  of 
matches,  we  undid  the  bale,  spread  out  the  hay 
on  the  floor  of  the  truck  and  lay  down,  wearing 
our  sheepskin  tunics  and  placing  our  overcoats 
over  our  legs. 

We  must  have  been  asleep  for  some  time.  We 
were  awakened  by  the  stopping  of  the  train  and 
the  sound  of  many  voices  outside.  The  door 
was  opened  and  we  looked  out.  An  officer  was 
hurrying  by,  shouting  loudly,  calling  on  us  to 
come  out.  On  a  level  space  bordering  the  line 
a  dozen  or  more  fires  were  blazing  merrily,  and 
dixies  with  some  boiling  liquid  were  being  car- 
ried backwards  and  forwards.  A  sergeant  with 
a  lantern,  one  of  our  own  men,  came  to  our  truck 
and  clambered  inside. 


28  The  Red  Horizon 

"Every  man  get  his  mess  tin,"  he  shouted. 
"Hurry  up,  the  tram's  not  stopping  for 
long,  and  there's  coffee  and  rum  for  us 
all." 

"I  wish  they'd  let  us  sleep,"  someone  who  was 
fumbling  in  his  pack  remarked  in  a  sleepy  voice. 
"I'm  not  wantin'  no  rum  and  caw  fee.  Last  night 
almost  choked  in  the  bell-tent,  the  night  before 
sea-sick,  and  now  wakened  up  for  rum  and  caw- 
fee.  Blast  it,  I  say !" 

We  lined  up  two  deep  on  the  six-foot  way, 
shivering  in  the  bitter  cold,  our  mess-tins  in  our 
hands.  The  fires  by  the  railway  threw  a  dim 
light  on  the  scene,  officers  paraded  up  and  down 
issuing  orders,  everybody  seemed  very  excited, 
and  nearly  all  were  grumbling  at  being  awakened 
from  their  beds  in  the  horse-trucks.  Many  of 
our  mates  were  now  coming  back  with  mess-tins 
steaming  hot,  and  some  would  come  to  a  halt 
for  a  moment  and  sip  from  their  rum  and  coffee. 
Chilled  to  the  bone  we  drew  nearer  to  the  coffee 
dixies.  What  a  warm  drink  it  would  be!  I 
counted  the  men  in  front — there  were  no  more 
than  twelve  or  thirteen  before  me.  Ah!  how 
cold!  and  hot  coffee — suddenly  a  whistle  was 
blown,  then  another. 

"Back  to  your  places!"  the  order  came,  and 


Somewhere  in  France  29 

never  did  a  more  unwilling  party  go  back  to 
bed.  We  did  not  learn  the  reason  for  the  order ; 
in  the  army  few  explanations  are  made.  We 
shivered  and  slumbered  till  dawn,  and  rose  to 
greet  a  cheerless  day  that  offered  us  biscuits  and 
bully-beef  for  breakfast  and  bully-beef  and  bis- 
cuits for  dinner.  At  half-past  four  in  the  after- 
noon we  came  to  a  village  and  formed  into  col- 
umn of  route  outside  the  railway  station.  Two 
hours  march  lay  before  us  we  learned,  but  we 
did  not  know  where  we  were  bound.  As  we 
waited  ready  to  move  off  a  sound,  ominous  and 
threatening,  rumbled  in  from  the  distance  and 
quivered  by  our  ears.  We  were  hearing  the 
sound  of  guns! 


CHAPTER  III 

OUR   FRENCH    BILLETS 

The  fog  is  white  on  Glenties  moors, 
The  road  is  grey  from  Glenties  town, 
Oh !  lone  grey  road  and  ghost  white  fog, 
And  ah !  the  homely  moors  of  brown. 

THE  farmhouse  where  we  were  billeted  re- 
minded me   strongly   of   my  home   in 
Donegal  with  its  fields  and  dusky  even- 
ings and  its  spirit  of  brooding  quiet.  Nothing  will 
persuade  me,  except  perhaps  the  Censor,  that  it 
is  not  the  home  of  Marie  Claire,  it  so  fits  in  with 
the  description  in  her  book. 

The  farmhouse  stands  about  a  hundred  yards 
away  from  the  main  road,  with  a  cart  track, 
slushy  and  muddy,  running  across  the  fields  to 
the  very  door.  The  whole  aspect  of  the  place 
is  forbidding,  it  looks  squalid  and  dilapidated, 
and  smells  of  decaying  vegetable  matter,  of 
manure  and  every  other  filth  that  can  find  a 
resting  place  in  the  vicinity  of  an  unclean  dwell- 
ing-place. But  it  is  not  dirty;  its  home-made 

bread  and  beer  are  excellent,  the  new-laid  eggs 

30 


Our  French  Billets  31 

are  delightful  for  breakfast,  the  milk  and  butter, 
fresh  and  pure,  are  dainties  that  an  epicure  might 
rave  about. 

We  easily  became  accustomed  to  the  discom- 
forts of  the  place,  to  the  midden  in  the  centre 
of  the  yard,  to  the  lean  long-eared  pigs  that  try 
to  gobble  up  everything  that  comes  within  their 
reach,  to  the  hens  that  flutter  over  our  beds 
and  shake  the  dust  of  ages  from  the  barn-roof 
at  dawn,  to  the  noisy  little  children  with  the 
dirty  faces  and  meddling  fingers,  who  poke  their 
hands  into  our  haversacks,  to  the  farm  servants 
who  inspect  all  our  belongings  when  we  are  out 
on  parade,  and  even,  now,  we  have  become  ac- 
customed to  the  very  rats  that  scurry  through 
the  barn  at  midnight  and  gnaw  at  our  equip- 
ment and  devour  our  rations  when  they  get  hold 
of  them.  One  night  a  rat  bit  a  man's  nose — but 
the  tale  is  a  long  one  and  I  will  tell  it  at  some 
other  time. 

We  came  to  the  farm  forty  of  us  in  all,  at 
the  heel  of  a  cold  March  day.  We  had  marched 
far  in  full  pack  with  rifle  and  bayonet.  An 
additional  load  had  now  been  heaped  on  our 
shoulders  in  the  -shape  of  the  sheepskin  jackets, 
the  uniform  of  the  trenches,  indispensable  to 
the  firing  line;  but  the  last  straw  on  the  backs 


32  The  Red  Horizon 

of  overburdened  soldiers.  The  march  to  the  barn 
billet  was  a  miracle  of  endurance,  but  all  lived 
it  through  and  thanked  Heaven  heartily  when 
it  was  over.  That  night  we  slept  in  the  barn, 
curled  up  in  the  straw,  our  waterproof  sheets 
under  us  and  our  blankets  and  sheepskins  round 
our  bodies.  It  was  very  comfortable,  a  night, 
indeed,  when  one  might  wish  to  remain  awake 
to  feel  how  very  glorious  the  rest  of  a  weary 
man  can  be. 

Awaking  with  dawn  was  another  pleasure ;  the 
barn  was  full  of  the  scent  of  corn  and  hay  and 
of  the  cow-shed  beneath.  The  hens  had  already 
flown  to  the  yard  and  the  dovecot  was  voluble. 
Somewhere  near  a  girl  was  milking,  and  we 
could  hear  the  lilt  of  her  song  as  she  worked;  a 
cart  rumbled  off  into  the  distance,  a  bell  was 
chiming,  and  the  dogs  of  many  farms  were  ex- 
changing greetings.  The  morning  was  one  to  be 
remembered. 

But  mixed  with  all  this  medley  of  sounds  came 
one  that  was  almost  new;  we  had  heard  it  for 
the  first  time  the  day  previous  and  it  had  been 
in  our  ears  ever  since;  it  was  with  us  still  and 
will  be  for  many  a  day  to  come.  Most  of  us  had 
never  heard  the  sound  before,  never  heard  its 
summons,  its  murmur  or  its  menace.  All  night 


Our  French  Billets  33 

long  it  was  in  the  air,  and  sweeping  round  the 
barn  where  we  lay,  telling  all  who  chanced 
to  listen  that  out  there,  where  the  search- 
lights quivered  across  the  face  of  heaven,  men 
were  fighting  and  killing  one  another:  sol- 
diers of  many  lands,  of  England,  Ireland  and 
Scotland,  of  Australia,  and  Germany;  of  Can- 
ada, South  Africa,  and  New  Zealand;  Saxon, 
Gurkha,  and  Prussian,  Englishman,  Irishman, 
and  Scotchman  were  engaged  in  deadly  com- 
bat. The  sound  was  the  sound  of  guns — our 
farmhouse  was  within  the  range  of  the  big 
artillery. 

We  were  billeted  a  platoon  to  a  barn,  a  section 
to  a  granary,  &c.,  and  despite  the  presence  of 
rats,  and,  incidentally,  pigs,  we  were  happy.  On 
one  farm  there  were  two  pigs,  intelligent  look- 
ing animals  with  roguish  eyes  and  queer  rakish 
ears.  They  were  terribly  lean,  almost  as  lean 
as  some  I  have  seen  in  Spain  where  the  swine 
are  as  skinny  as  Granada  beggars.  They 
were  very  hungry  and  one  ate  a  man's  food- 
wallet  and  all  it  contained,  comprising  bread, 
army  biscuits,  canned  beef,  including  can  and 
other  sundries.  "I  wish  the  animal  had  choked 
itself/'  my  mate  said  when  he  discovered 
his  loss.  Personally  I  had  a  profound  re- 


34  The  Red  Horizon 

spect  for  any  pig  who  voluntarily  ate  army 
biscuit. 

We  got  up  about  six  o'clock  every  morning 
and  proceeded  to  wash  and  shave.  All  used  the 
one  pump,  sometimes  five  or  six  heads  were 
stuck  under  it  at  the  same  moment,  and  an 
eager  hand  worked  the  handle,  and  poured  a 
plentiful  supply  of  very  cold  water  on  the  close 
cropped  pates.  The  panes  of  the  farmhouse 
window  made  excellent  shaving  mirrors  and, 
incidentally,  I  may  mention  that  rifle-slings 
generally  serve  the  purpose  of  razor  strops. 
Breakfast  followed  toilet;  most  of  the  men 
bought  cafe-au-lait  at  a  penny  a  basin  and 
home-made  bread,  buttered  lavishly,  at  penny  a 
slice.  A  similar  repast  would  cost  sixpence  in 
London. 

Parade  followed.  In  England  we  had  cher- 
ished the  illusion  that  life  abroad  would  be  an 
easy  business,  merely  consisting  of  firing  prac- 
tices in  the  trenches,  followed  by  intervals  of 
idleness  in  rest-camps,  where  cigarettes  could 
be  obtained  for  the  asking,  and  tots  of  rum  would 
be  served  out  ad  infinitum.  This  rum  would 
have  a  certain  charm  of  its  own,  make  every- 
body merry,  and  banish  all  discomforts  due  to 
frost  and  cold  for  ever.  Thus  the  men  thought, 


Our  French  Billets  35 

though  most  of  our  fellows  are  teetotallers.  We 
get  rum  now,  few  drink  it;  we  are  sated  with 
cigarettes,  and  smoke  them  as  if  in  duty  bound; 
the  stolen  delight  of  the  last  "fag-end"  is  a 
dream  of  the  past.  Parades  are  endless,  we 
have  never  worked  so  hard  since  we  joined  the 
army;  the  minor  offences  of  the  cathedral  city 
are  full-grown  crimes  under  long  artillery 
range;  a  dirty  rifle  was  only  a  matter  for 
words  of  censure  a  month  ago,  a  dirty  rifle  now 
will  cause  its  owner  to  meditate  in  the  guard- 
room. 

Dinner  consists  of  bully  beef  and  biscuits; 
now  and  again  we  fry  the  bully  beef  on  the  farm- 
house stove,  and  when  cash  is  plentiful  cook  an 
egg  with  it.  The  afternoon  is  generally  given  up 
to  practising  bayonet-fighting,  and  our  day's 
work  comes  to  an  end  about  six  o'clock.  In  the 
evening  we  go  into  the  nearest  village  and  dis- 
cuss matters  of  interest  in  some  cafe.  Here  we 
meet  all  manner  of  men,  Gurkhas  fresh  from 
the  firing  line ;  bus-drivers,  exiles  from  London ; 
men  of  the  Army  Service  Corps;  .Engineers, 
kilted  Highlanders,  men  recovering  from  wounds, 
who  are  almost  fit  to  go  to  the  trenches  again; 
French  soldiers,  Canadian  soldiers,  and  all 


36  The  Red  Horizon 

sorts  of  people,  helpers  in  some  way  or  another 
of  the  Allies  in  the  Great  War. 

We  have  to  get  back  to  our  billets  by  eight 
o'clock,  to  stop  out  after  that  hour  is  a  serious 
crime  here.  A  soldier  out  of  doors  at  midnight 
in  the  cathedral  oity  was  merely  a  minor  offender. 
But  under  the  range  of  long  artillery  fire  all 
things  are  different  for  the  soldier. 

St.  Patrick's  Day  was  an  event.  We  had  a 
half  holiday,  and  at  night,  with  the  aid  of  beer, 
we  made  merry  as  men  can  on  St.  Patrick's 
Day.  We  sang  Irish  songs,  told  stories, 
mostly  Cockney,  and  laughed  without  restraint 
as  merry  men  will,  for  to  all  St.  Patrick  was 
an  excuse  for  having  a  good  and  rousing 
time. 

There  is,  however,  one  little  backwater  of  rest 
and  quiet  into  which  we  men  of  blood  arid  iron 
drift  at  all  too  infrequent  intervals — that  is  when 
we  become  what  is  known  officially  as  "barn 
orderly."  A  barn  orderly  is  the  company  unit 
who  looks  after  the  billets  of  the  men  out  on 
parade.  In  due  course  my  turn  arrived,  and 
the  battalion  marched  away  leaving  me  to  the 
quiet  of  the  farmyard. 

Having  heaped  up  the  straw,  our  bedding,  in 
one  corner  of  the  barn,  swept  the  concrete  floor, 


Our  French  Billets  37 

rolled  the  blankets,  explained  to  the  gossipy 
farm  servant  that  I  do  not  "compree"  her  gib- 
berish, and  watched  her  waddle  across  the  mid- 
den towards  the  house,  my  duties  were  ended. 
I  was  at  liberty  until  the  return  of  the  battalion. 
It  was  all  very  quiet,  little  was  to  be  heard  save 
the  gnawing  of  the  rats  in  the  corner  of  the 
barn  and  the  muffled  booming  of  guns  from 
"out  there" — "out  there"  is  the  oft-repeated 
phrase  that  denotes  the  locality  of  the  firing 
line. 

There  was  sunlight  and  shade  in  the  farm- 
yard, the  sun  lit  up  the  pump  on  the  top  of  which 
a  little  bird  with  salmon  pink  breast,  white- 
tipped  tail,  and  crimson  head  preened  its 
feathers;  in  the  shade  where  our  barn  and  the 
stables  form  an  angle  an  old  lady  in  snowy  sun- 
bonnet  and  striped  apron  was  sitting  knitting. 
It  was  good  to  be  there  lying  prone  upon  the 
barn  straw  near  the  door  above  the  crazy  ladder, 
writing  letters.  I  had  learned  to  love  this  place 
and  these  people  whom  I  seem  to  know  so 
very  well  from  having  read  Rene  Bazin, 
Daudet,  Maupassant,  Balzac  and  Marie  Claire. 
High  up  and  far  away  to  the  west  a  Zeppelin 
was  to  be  seen  travelling  in  a  westerly  direction ; 
the  farmer's  wife,  our  landlady,  had  just  rescued 


38  The  Red  Horizon 

a  tin  of  bully  beef  from  one  of  her  all-devour- 
ing pigs;  at  the  barn  door  lay  my  recently 
cleaned  rifle  and  ordered  equipment — how  in- 
congruous it  all  was  with  the  home  of  Marie 
Claire. 

Suddenly  I  was  brought  back  to  realities  by 
the  recollection  that  the  battalion  was  to  have  a 
bath  that  afternoon  and  towels  and  soap  must  be 
ready  to  take  out  on  the  next  parade. 

The  next  morning  was  beautifully  clear;  the 
sun  rising  over  the  firing  line  lit  up  wood  and 
field,  river  and  pond.  The  hens  were  noisy  in 
the  farmyard;  the  horse  lines  to  the  rear  were 
full  of  movement,  horses  strained  at  their  tethers 
eager  to  break  away  and  get  free  from  the 
captivity  of  the  rope;  the  grooms  were  busy 
brushing  the  animals'  legs  and  flanks,  and  a 
slight  dust  arose  into  the  air  as  the  work  was 
carried  on. 

Over  the  red-brick  houses  of  the  village 
the  church  stood  high,  its  spire  clearly  defined 
against  the  blue  of  the  sky.  The  door  of  the 
cafe  across  the  road  opened,  and  the  proprie- 
tress, a  merry- faced,  elderly  woman,  came  across 
to  the  farmhouse.  She  purchased  some  newly 
laid  eggs  for  breakfast,  and  entered  into  con- 
versation with  our  men,  some  of  whom  knew 


Our  French  Billets  39 

a  little  of  her  language.  They  asked  about 
her  son  in  the  trenches;  she  had  heard  from 
him  the  day  before  and  he  was  quite  well  and 
hoped  to  have  a  holiday  very  soon.  He  would 
come  home  then  and  spend  a  fortnight  with  the 
family.  She  looked  forward  to  his  coming, 
he  had  been  away  from  her  ever  since  the  war 
started;  she  had  not  seen  him  for  eight  whole 
months.  What  happiness  would  be  hers  when  he 
returned!  She  waved  her  hand  to  us  as  she 
went  off,  tripping  lightly  across  the  roadway 
and  disappearing  into  the  cafe.  She  was  going 
to  church  presently;  it  was  Holy  Week  when 
the  Virgin  listened  to  special  intercessors,  and 
the  good  matron  of  the  cafe  prayed  hourly  for 
the  safety  of  her  soldier  boy. 

At  ten  o'clock  we  went  to  chapel,  our  pipers 
playing  The  Wearing  of  the  Green  as  we 
marched  along  the  crooked  village  streets,  our 
rifles  on  our  shoulders  and  our  bandoliers  heavy 
with  the  ball  cartridge  which  we  carried.  The 
rifle  is  with  us  always  now,  on  parade,  on  march, 
in  cafe,  billet,  and  church;  our  "best  friend"  is 
our  eternal  companion.  We  carried  it  into  the 
church  and  fastened  the  sling  to  the  chair  as 
we  knelt  in  prayer  before  the  altar.  We  occu- 
pied the  larger  part  of  the  building;  only  three 


4O  The  Red  Horizon 

able-bodied  men  in  civilian  clothing  were  in  at- 
tendance. 

The  youth  of  the  country  were  out  in  the 
trenches,  and  even  here  in  the  quiet  little  chapel 
with  its  crucifixes,  images,  and  pictures,  there 
was  the  suggestion  of  war  in  the  collection  boxes 
for  wounded  soldiers,  in  the  crepe  worn  by  so 
many  women ;  one  in  every  ten  was  in  mourning, 
and  above  all  in  the  general  air  of  resignation 
which  showed  on  all  the  faces  of  the  native 
worshippers. 

The  whole  place  breathed  war,  not  in  the 
splendid  whirlwind  rush  of  men  mad  in  the  wild 
enthusiasm  of  battle,  but  in  silent  yearning,  heart- 
felt sorrow,  and  great  bravery,  the  bravery  of 
women  who  remain  at  home.  Opposite  us  sat 
the  lady  of  the  cafe,  her  head  low  down  on  her 
breast,  and  the  rosary  slipping  bead  by  bead 
through  her  fingers.  Now  and  again  she  would 
stir  slightly,  raise  her  eyes  to  the  Virgin  on  the 
right  of  the  high  altar,  and  move  her  lips  in 
prayer,  then  she  would  lower  her  head  again  and 
continue  her  rosary. 

As  far  as  I  could  ascertain  singing  in  church 
was  the  sole  privilege  of  the  choir,  none  of  the 
congregation  joined  in  the  hymns.  But  to-day 
the  church  had  a  new  congregation — the  soldiers 


Our  French  Billets  41 

from  England,  the  men  who  sing  in  the  trenches, 
in  the  billet,  and  on  the  march ;  the  men  who  glory 
in  song  on  the  last  lap  of  a  long,  killing  journey 
in  full  marching  order.  To-day  they  sang  a  hymn 
well-known  and  loved,  the  clarion  call  of  their 
faith  was  started  by  the  choir.  As  one  man  the 
soldiers  joined  in  the  singing,  and  their  voices 
filled  the  building.  The  other  members  of  the 
congregation  looked  on  for  a  moment  in  surprise, 
then  one  after  another  they  started  to  sing,  and 
in  a  moment  nearly  all  in  the  place  were  aiding 
the  choir.  One  was  silent,  however,  the  lady  of 
the  cafe;  still  deep  in  prayer  she  scarcely  glanced 
at  the  singers,  her  mind  was  full  of  another  mat- 
ter. Only  a  mother  thinking  about  a  loved  son 
can  so  wholly  lose  herself  from  the  world.  And 
as  I  looked  at  her  I  thought  I  detected  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

The  priest,  a  pleasant  faced  young  man,  who 
spoke  very  quickly  (I  have  never  heard  anybody 
speak  like  him),  thanked  the  soldiers,  and  through 
them  their  nation  for  all  that  was  being  done  to 
help  in  the  war;  prayers  were  said  for  the  men 
at  the  front,  those  who  were  still  alive,  as  well 
as  those  who  had  given  up  their  lives  for  their 
country's  sake,  and  before  leaving  we  sang  the 
national  anthem,  ours,  God  Save  the  King. 


42  The  Red  Horizon 

With  the  pipers  playing  at  our  front,  and  an 
admiring  crowd  of  boys  following,  we  took  our 
way  back  to  our  billets.  On  the  march  a  mate  was 
speaking,  one  who  had  been  late  coming  on  parade 
in  the  morning. 

"Saw  the  woman  of  the  cafe  in  church?"  he 
asked  me.  "Saw  her  crying?" 

"I  thought  she  looked  unhappy." 

"Just  after  you  got  off  parade  the  news 
came,"  my  mate  told  me.  "Her  son  had  been 
killed.  She  is  awfully  upset  about  it  and  no 
wonder.  She  was  always  talking  about  her 
petit  gargon,  and  he  was  to  be  home  on  holidays 
shortly." 

Somewhere  "out  there"  where  the  guns  are 
incessantly  booming,  a  nameless  grave  holds  the 
"petit  gargon''  the  cafe  lady's  son ;  next  Sunday 
another  mourner  will  join  with  the  many  in  the 
village  church  and  pray  to  the  Virgin  Mother  for 
the  soul  of  her  beloved  boy. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   NIGHT   BEFORE   THE  TRENCHES 

Four  by  four  in  columns  of  route, 

By  roads  that  the  poplars  sentinel, 

Clank  of  rifle  and  crunch  of  boot — 

All  are  marching  and  all  is  well. 

White,  so  white  is  the  distant  moon, 

Salmon  pink  is  the  furnace  glare, 

And  we  hum,  as  we  march,  a  ragtime  tune, 

Khaki  boys  in  the  long  platoon, 

Going  and  going — anywhere. 

THE  battalion  will  move  to-morrow,"  said 
the  Jersey  youth,  repeating  the  orders 
read  out  in  the  early  part  of  the  day, 
and  removing  a  clot  of  farmyard  muck  from  the 
foresight  guard  of  his  rifle  as  he  spoke.  It  was 
seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  the  hour  when 
candles  were  stuck  in  their  cheese  sconces  and 
lighted.  Cakes  of  soap  and  lumps  of  cheese 
are  easily  scooped  out  with  clasp-knives  and  make 
excellent  sconces;  we  often  use  them  for  that 
purpose  in  our  barn  billet.  We  had  been  quite 
a  long  time  in  the  place  and  had  grown  to  like  it. 
But  to-morrow  we  were  leaving. 

"Oh,  dash  the  rifle !"  said  the  Jersey  boy,  get- 

43 


44  The  Red  Horizon 

ting  to  his  feet  and  kicking  a  bundle  of  straw 
across  the  floor  of  the  barn.  "To-morrow  night 
we'll  be  in  the  trenches  up  in  the  firing  line." 

"The  slaughter  line,"  somebody  remarked  in 
the  corner  where  the  darkness  hung  heavy.  A 
match  was  lighted  disclosing  the  speaker's  face 
and  the  pipe  which  he  held  between  his  teeth. 

"No  smoking,"  yelled  a  corporal,  who  had  just 
entered.  "You'll  burn  the  damned  place  down 
and  get  yourself  as  well  as  all  of  us  into  trouble." 

"Oh  blast  the  barn!"  muttered  Bill  Sykes,  a 
narrow  chested  Cockney  with  a  good-humoured 
face  that  belied  his  nickname.  "It's  only  fit  for 
rats  and  there's  'miff  of  'em  'ere.  I'm  goin'  to 
'ave  a  fag  anyway.  Got  me?" 

The  corporal  asked  Bill  for  a  cigarette  and  lit 
it.  "We're  all  mates  now  and  we'll  make  a  night 
of  it,"  he  cried.  "Damn  the  barn,  there'll  be 
barns  when  we're  all  washed  out  with  Jack  John- 
sons. What  are  you  doin',  Feelan?" 

Feelan,  an  Irishman  with  a  brogue  that  could 
be  cut  with  a  knife,  laid  down  the  sword  which 
he  was  burnishing  and  glanced  at  the  non-com. 

"The  Germans  don't  fire  at  men  with  stripes, 
I  hear,"  he  remarked.  "They  only  shoot  rale 
good  soldiers.  A  livin'  corp'ral's  hardly  as  good 
as  a  dead  rifleman." 


Night  Before  the  Trenches        45 

Six  foot  three  of  Cumberland  bone  and  muscle 
detached  itself  from  the  straw  and  looked  round 
the  barn.  We  call  it  Goliath  on  account  of 
its  size. 

"Who's  to  sing  the  first  song,"  asked  Goliath. 
"A  good  hearty  song!" 

"One  with  whiskers  on  it!"  said  the  corporal. 

"I'll  slash  the  game  up  and  give  a  rale  ould 
song,  whiskers  to  the  toes  of  it,"  said  Feelan, 
shoving  his  sword  in  its  scabbard  and  throwing 
himself  flat  back  on  the  straw.  "It's  a  song 
about  the  time  Irelan'  was  fightin'  for  freedom 
and  it's  called  The  Rising  of  the  Moon!  A  great 
song  entirely  it  is,  and  I  cannot  do  it  justice." 

Feelan  stood  up,  his  legs  wide  apart  and  both 
his  thumbs  stuck  in  the  upper  pockets  of  his 
tunic.  Behind  him  the  barn  stretched  out  into 
the  gloom  that  our  solitary  candle  could  not 
pierce.  On  either  side  rifles  hung  from  the  wall, 
and  packs  and  haversacks  stood  high  from  the 
straw  in  which  most  of  the  men  had  buried  them- 
selves, leaving  nothing  but  their  faces,  fringed 
with  the  rims  of  Balaclava  helmets,  exposed  to 
view.  The  night  was  bitterly  cold,  outside  where 
the  sky  stood  high  splashed  with  countless  stars 
and  where  the  earth  gripped  tight  on  itself,  the 
frost  fiend  was  busy ;  in  the  barn,  with  its  medley 


46  The  Red  Horizon 

of  men,  roosting  hens  and  prowling  rats  all  was 
cosy  and  warm.  Feelan  cleared  his  throat  and 
commenced  the  song,  his  voice,  strong  and  clear, 
filled  the  barn: — 

"Arrah!  tell  me  Shan  O'Farrel;  tell  me  why  you  hurry  so?" 
"Hush,  my  bouchal,  hush  and  listen,"  and  his  cheeks  were 

all  aglow — 
"I've  got  orders  from  the  Captain  to  get  ready  quick  and 

soon, 

For  the  pikes  must  be  together  at  the  risin'  of  the  moon, 

At  the  risin'  of  the  moon! 

At  the  risin'  of  the  moon! 

And  the  pikes  must  be  together  at  the  risin'  of  the  moon !" 

"That's  some  song,"  said  the  corporal.  "It 
has  got  guts  in  it.  I'm  sick  of  these  ragtime 
rotters !" 

"The  old  songs  are  always  the  best  ones," 
said  Feelan,  clearing  his  throat  preparatory  to 
commencing  a  second  verse. 

"What  about  Uncle  Joe?"  asked  Goliath,  and 
was  off  with  a  regimental  favourite. 

When  Uncle  Joe  plays  a  rag  upon  his  old  banjo — 

("Oh !"  the  occupants  of  the  barn  yelled.) 
Ev'rybody  starts  a-swayin'  to  and  fro — 

("Ha!"  exclaimed  the  barn.) 
Mummy  waddles  all  around  the  cabin  floor! — 

("What!"  we  chorussed.) 
Crying,  "Uncle  Joe,  give  us  more,  give  us  more !" 

"Give  us  no  more  of  that  muck!"  exclaimed 
Feelan,  burrowing  into  the  straw,  no  doubt  a 


Night  Before  the  Trenches        47 

little  annoyed  at  being  interrupted  in  his  song. 
"Damn  ragtime !" 

"There's  ginger  in  it!"  said  Goliath.  "Your 
old  song  is  as  flat  as  French  beer!" 

"Some  decent  music  is  what  you  want,"  said. 
Bill  Sykes,  and  forthwith  began  strumming  an 
invisible  banjo  and  humming  Way  down  upon 
the  Swanee  Ribber. 

The  candle,  the  only  one  in  our  possession, 
burned  closer  to  the  cheese  sconce,  a  daring  rat 
slipped  into  the  light,  stopped  still  for  a  moment 
on  top  of  a  sheaf  of  straw,  then  scampered  off 
again,  shadows  danced  on  the  roof,  over  the 
joists  where  the  hens  were  roosting,  an  un- 
sheathed sword  glittered  brightly  as  the  light 
caught  it,  and  Feelan  lifted  the  weapon  and 
glanced  at  it. 

"Burnished  like  a  lady's  nail,"  he  muttered. 

"Thumb  nail  ?"  interrogated  Goliath. 

"Ragnail,  p'raps,"  said  the  Cockney. 

"I  wonder  whether  we'll  have  much  bayonet- 
fightin'  or  not?"  remarked  the  Jersey  boy,  look- 
ing at  each  of  us  in  turn  and  addressing  no  one 
in  particular. 

"We'll  get  some  now  and  again  to  keep  us 
warm!"  said  the  corporal.  "It'll  be  'ot  when 
it  comes  along." 


48  The  Red  Horizon 

"  'Ot's  not  the  word,"  said  Bill ;  "I  never  was 
much  drawn  to  soldierin'  'fore  the  war  started, 
but  when  it  came  along  I  felt  I'd  like  to  'ave  a 
'and  in  the  gime.  There,  that  candle's  goin'  out !" 

"Bunk!"  roared  the  corporal,  putting  his  pipe 
in  his  pocket  and  seizing  a  blanket,  the  first  to 
hand.  Almost  immediately  he  was  under  the 
straw  with  the  blanket  wrapped  round  him.  We 
were  not  backward  in  following,  and  all  were 
in  bed  when  the  flame  which  followed  the  wax 
so  greedily  died  for  lack  of  sustenance. 

To-morrow  night  we  should  be  in  the 
trenches. 


CHAPTER  V 

FIRST   BLOOD 

The  nations,  like  Kilkenny  cats, 
Full  of  hate  that  never  dies  out, 
Tied  tail  to  tail,  hung  o'er  a  rope, 
Still  strive  to  tear  each  other's  eyes  out. 

THE  company  came  to  a  halt  in  the  village ; 
we  marched  for  three  miles,  and  the 
morning  being  a  hot  one  we  were  glad 
to  fall  out  and  lie  down  on  the  pavement, 
packs  well  up  under  our  shoulders  and  our  legs 
stretched  out  at  full  length  over  the  kerbstone  into 
the  gutter.  The  sweat  stood  out  in  beads  on  the 
men's  foreheads  and  trickled  down  their  cheeks 
onto  their  tunics.  The  white  dust  of  the  roadway 
settled  on  boots,  trousers,  and  puttees,  and  rested 
in  fine  layers  on  haversack  folds  and  cartridge 
pouches.  Rifles  and  bayonets,  spotless  in  the 
morning's  inspection,  had  lost  all  their  polished 
lustre  and  were  gritty  to  the  touch.  We  carried 
a  heavy  load,  two  hundred  rounds  of  ball  car- 
tridge, a  loaded  rifle  with  five  rounds  in  magazine, 
a  pack  stocked  with  overcoat,  spare  undercloth- 

49 


5O  The  Red  Horizon 

ing,  and  other  field  necessaries,  a  haversack  con- 
taining twenty- four-hours'  rations,  and  sword 
and  entrenching  tool  per  man.  We  were 
equipped  for  battle  and  were  on  our  way  towards 
the  firing  line. 

A  low-set  man  with  massive  shoulders,  bull- 
neck  and  heavy  jowl  had  just  come  out  of  an 
estaminet,  a  mess-tin  of  beer  in  his  hand,  and 
knife  and  fork  stuck  in  his  puttees. 

"Going  up  to  the  slaughter  line,  mateys?"  he 
enquired,  an  amused  smile  hovering  about  his 
eyes,  which  took  us  all  in  with  one  penetrating 
glance. 

"Yes,"  I  replied.  "Have  you  been  long  out 
here?" 

"About  a  matter  of  nine  months/' 

"You've  been  lucky,"  said  Mervin,  my  mate. 

"I  haven't  gone  West  yet,  if  that's  what  you 
mean,"  was  the  answer.  "  'Oo  are  you?" 

"The  London  Irish." 

"Territorials?" 

"That's  us,"  someone  said. 

"First  time  up  this  way?" 

"First  time." 

"I  knew  that  by  the  size  of  your  packs,"  said 
the  man,  the  smile  reaching  his  lips.  "Bloomin' 
pack-horses  you  look  like.  If  you  want  a  word 


First  Blood  51 

of  advice,  sling  your  packs  over  a  hedge,  keep 
a  tight  grip  on  your  mess-tin,  and  ram  your 
spoon  and  fork  into  your  puttees.  My  pack 
went  West  at  Mons." 

"You  were  there  then?" 

"Blimey,  yes,"  was  the  answer. 

"How  did  you  like  it?" 

"Not  so  bad,"  said  the  man.  "  'Ave  a  drink 
and  pass  the  mess-tin  round.  There  is  only 
one  bad  shell,  that's  the  one  that  'its  you,  and 
if  you're  unlucky  it'll  come  your  way.  The 
same  about  the  bullet  with  your  number  on  it; 
it  can't  miss  you  if  it's  made  for  you.  And  if 
ever  you  go  into  a  charge — Think  of  your  pals, 
matey!"  he  roared  at  the  man  who  was  greedily 
gulping  down  the  contents  of  the  mess-tin. 
"You're  swigging  all  the  stuff  yourself.  For 
myself  I  don't  care  much  for  this  beer,  it  has 
no  guts  in  it,  one  good  English  pint  is  worth  an 
ocean  of  this  dashed  muck.  Good-bye" — we  were 
moving  off,  "and  good  luck  tq  you !" 

Mervin,  perspiring  profusely,  marched  by 
my  side.  He  and  I  have  been  great  comrades, 
we  have  worked,  eaten,  and  slept  together, 
and  committed  sin  in  common  against  regimental 
regulations.  Mervin  has  been  a  great  traveller, 
he  has  dug  for  gold  in  the  Yukon,  grown  oranges 


52  The  Red  Horizon 

in  Los  Angeles,  tapped  for  rubber  in  Camerango 
(I  don't  know  where  the  place  is,  but  I  love  the 
name)  and  he  can  eat  a  tin  of  bully  beef,  and 
relish  the  meal.  He  is  the  only  man  in  our 
section  who  can  enjoy  it;  one  of  us  cares  only 
for  cheese,  and  few  grind  biscuits  when  they 
can  beg  bread. 

A  battalion  is  divided  into  four  companies,  a 
company  contains  four  platoons  made  up  of 
sections  of  unequal  strength;  our  section  con- 
sisted of  thirteen — there  are  only  four  boys 
left  now,  Mervin  has  been  killed,  five  have 
been  wounded,  two  have  become  stretcher 
bearers,  and  one  has  left  us  to  join  another 
company  in  which  one  of  his  mates  is  placed. 
Poor  Mervin !  How  sad  it  was  to  lose  him,  and 
much  sadder  is  it  for  his  sweetheart  in  England. 
He  was  engaged ;  often  he  told  me  of  his  dreams 
of  a  farm,  a  quiet  cottage  and  a  garden  at  home 
when  the  war  came  to  an  end.  Somewhere  in  a 
soldier's  grave  he  sleeps.  I  know  not  where 
he  lies,  but  one  day,  if  the  fates  spare  me,  I  will 
pay  a  visit  to  the  resting-place  of  a  true  comrade 
and  a  staunch  friend. 

Outside  the  village  we  formed  into  single 
file.  It  was  reported  that  the  enemy  shelled  the 
road  daily,  and  only  three  days  before  the 


First  Blood  53 

Royal  Engineers  lost  thirty-seven  men  when 
going  up  to  the  trenches  on  the  same  route.  In 
the  village  all  was  quiet ;  the  cafes  were  open,  and 
old  men,  women,  and  boys  were  about  their  daily 
work  as  usual.  There  were  very  few  young  men 
of  military  age  in  the  place;  all  were  engaged 
in  the  business  of  war. 

A  file  marched  on  each  side  of  the  road.  Mer- 
vin  was  in  front  of  me;  Stoner,  a  slender  youth, 
tall  as  a  lance  and  lithe  as  a  poplar,  marched 
behind,  smoking  a  cigarette  and  humming  a 
tune.  He  worked  as  a  clerk  in  a  large  London 
club  whose  members  were  both  influential  and 
wealthy.  When  he  joined  the  army  all  his  pay 
was  stopped,  and  up  to  the  present  he  has  received 
from  his  employers  six  bars  of  chocolate  and  four 
old  magazines.  His  age  is  nineteen,  and  his  job 
is  being  kept  open  for  him.  He  is  one  of  the 
cheeriest  souls  alive,  a  great  worker,  and  he  loves 
to  listen  to  the  stories  which  now  and  again  I 
tell  to  the  section.  When  at  St.  Albans  he  spent 
six  weeks  in  hospital  suffering  from  tonsilitis. 
The  doctor  advised  him  to  stay  at  home  and  get 
his  discharge;  he  is  still  with  us,  and  once,  dur- 
ing our  heaviest  bombardment,  he  slept  for  a 
whole  eight  hours  in  his  dug-out.  All  the  rest 


54  The  Red  Horizon 

of  us  remained  awake,  feeling  certain  that  our 
last  hour  had  come. 

Teak  and  Kore,  two  bosom  chums,  marched  on 
the  other  side  of  the  road.  Both  are  children 
almost ;  they  may  be  nineteen,  but  neither  look  it ; 
Kore  laughs  deep  down  in  his  throat,  and  laughs 
heartiest  when  his  own  jokes  amuse  the  listeners. 
He  is  not  fashioned  in  a  strong  mould,  but  an 
elegant  marcher,  and  light  of  limb;  he  may  be 
a  clerk  in  business,  but  as  he  is  naturally  secretive 
we  know  nothing  of  his  profession.  Kore  is  also 
a  punster  who  makes  abominable  puns;  these 
amuse  nobody  except,  perhaps,  himself.  Teak, 
a  good  fellow,  is  known  to  us  as  Bill  Sykes.  He 
has  a  very  pale  complexion,  and  has  the  most 
delightful  nose  in  all  the  world;  it  is  like  a  little 
white  potato.  Bill  is  a  good-humoured  Cockney, 
and  is  eternally  involved  in  argument.  He  car- 
ries a  Jew's  harp  and  a  mouth-organ,  and  when 
not  fingering, one  he  is  blowing  music-hall  tunes 
out  of  the  other. 

Goliath,  six  foot  three  of  bone  and  muscle, 
is  a  magnificent  animal.  The  gods  forgot  little 
of  their  old-time  cunning  in  the  making  of 
him,  in  the  forging  of  his  shoulders,  massive  as 
a  bull's  withers,  in  the  shaping  of  his  limbs,  sturdy 
as  pillars  of  granite  and  supple  as  willows,  in 


First  Blood  55 

the  setting  of  his  well-poised  head,  his  heavy  jaw, 
and  muscled  neck.  But  the  gods  seem  to  have 
grown  weary  of  a  momentous  masterpiece  when 
they  came  to  the  man's  eyes,  and  Goliath  wears 
glasses.  For  all  that  he  is  a  good  marksman  and, 
strange  to  say,  he  delights  in  the  trivialities  of 
verse,  and  carries  an  earmarked  Tennyson  about 
with  him. 

Pryor  is  a  pessimist,  an  artist,  a  poet,  a 
writer  of  stories;  he  drifted  into  our  little  world 
on  the  march  and  is  with  us  still.  He  did  not 
like  his  previous  section  and  applied  for  a 
transfer  into  ours.  He  gloats  over  sunsets, 
colours,  unconventional  doings,  hopes  that  he 
will  never  marry  a  girl  with  thick  ankles,  and 
is  certain  that  he  will  never  live  to  see  the  end 
of  the  War.  Pryor,  Teak,  Kore,  and  Stoner 
have  never  used  a  razor;  they  are  as  beardless 
as  babes. 

We  were  coming  near  the  trenches.  In  front, 
the  two  lines  of  men  stretched  on  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  see;  we  were  near  the  rear  and  sing- 
ing Macnamara's  Band,  a  favourite  song  with 
our  regiment.  Suddenly  a  halt  was  called.  A 
heap  of  stones  bounded  the  roadway,  and  we 
sat  down,  laying  our  rifles  on  the  fine  gravel. 

The  crash  came  from  the  distance,  probably 


56  The  Red  Horizon 

five  hundred  yards  in  front,  and  it  sounded  like 
a  waggon  of  rubble  being  emptied  from  a 
landing  down  a  flight  of  stairs  and  clattering 
down. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Stoner,  flicking  the  ash 
from  the  tip  of  his  cigarette  with  the  little  finger. 

"Some  transport  has  broken  down." 

"Perhaps  it's  a  shell,"  I  ventured,  not  believing 
what  I  said. 

"Oh!  your  grandmother." 

Whistling  over  our  head  it  came  with  a 
swish  similar  to  that  made  by  a  wet  sheet  shaken 
in  the  wind,  and  burst  in  the  field  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road.  A  ball  of  white  smoke  poised 
for  a  moment  in  mid-air,  curled  slowly  upwards, 
and  gradually  faded  away.  I  looked  at  my 
mates.  Stoner  was  deadly  pale;  it  seemed  as  if 
all  the  blood  had  rushed  away  from  his  face. 
Teak's  mouth  was  a  little  open,  his  cigarette, 
sticking  to  his  upper  lip,  hung  down  quivering, 
and  the  ash  was  falling  down  on  his  tunic;  a 
smile  almost  of  contempt  played  on  Pryor's 
face,  and  Goliath  yawned.  At  the  time  I 
wondered  if  he  were  posing.  He  spoke: — 

"  'There's  only  one  bad  shell,  you  know/  "  he 
said.  "It  hasn't  come  this  way  yet.  See  that 
woman?"  He  pointed  at  the  field  where  the 


First  Blood  57 

shell  had  exploded.  At  the  far  end  a  woman  was 
working  with  a  hoe,  her  head  bowed  over  her 
work,  and  her  back  bent  almost  double.  Two 
children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  came  along  the  road 
hand  in  hand,  and  deep  in  a  childish  discussion. 
The  world,  the  fighting  men,  and  the  bursting 
shells  were  lost  to  them.  They  were  intent  on 
their  own  little  affairs.  For  ourselves  we  felt 
more  than  anything  else  a  sensation  of  surprise — 
surprise  because  we  were  not  more  afraid  of  the 
bursting  shrapnel. 

"Quick  march!" 

We  got  to  our  feet  and  resumed  our  journey. 
We  were  now  passing  through  a  village  where 
several  houses  had  been  shattered,  and  one 
was  almost  levelled  to  the  ground.  But  beside 
it,  almost  intact,  although  not  a  pane  of  glass 
remained  in  the  windows,  stood  a  cafe.  A  pale 
stick  of  a  woman  in  a  white  apron,  with  arms 
akimbo,  stood  on  the  threshold  with  a  toddling 
infant  tugging  at  her  petticoats. 

Several  French  soldiers  were  inside,  seated 
round  a  table,  drinking  beer  and  smoking.  One 
man,  a  tall,  angular  fellow  with  a  heavy  beard, 
seemed  to  be  telling  a  funny  story;  all  his 
mates  were  laughing  heartily.  A  horseman 
came  up  at  this  moment,  one  of  our  soldiers, 


58  The  Red  Horizon 

and  his  horse  was  bleeding  at  the  rump,  where 
a  red,  ugly  gash  showed  on  the  flesh. 

"Just  a  splinter  of  shell,"  he  said,  in  answer 
to  our  queries.  "The  one  that  burst  there,"  he 
pointed  with  his  whip  towards  the  field  where 
the  shrapnel  had  exploded :  'Twas  only  a 
whistler." 

"What  did  you  think  of  it,"  I  called  to 
Stoner. 

"I  didn't  know  what  to  think  first,"  was  the 
answer;  "then  when  I  came  to  myself  I  thought 
it  might  have  done  for  me,  and  I  got  a  kind  of 
shock  just  like  I'd  get  when  I  have  a  narrow 
shave  with  a  'bus  in  London." 

"And  you,  Pryor?" 

"I  went  cold  all  over  for  a  minute." 

"Bill?" 

"Oh!  Blast  them  is  what  I  say!"  was  his 
answer.  "If  it's  going  to  do  you  in  'twill  do 
you  in,  and  that's  about  the  end  of  it.  Well, 
sing  a  song  to  cheer  us  up,"  and  without  another 
word  he  began  to  bellow  out  one  of  our  popular 
rhymes. 

Oh !  the  Irish  boys,  they  are  the  boys 
To  drive  the  Kaiser  balmy. 
And  we'll  smash  up  that  fool  Von  Kluck 
And  all  his  bloomin'  army! 


First  Blood  59 

We  came  to  a  halt  again,  this  time  alongside 
a  Red  Cross  motor  ambulance.  In  front,  with 
the  driver,  one  of  our  boys  was  seated;  his  coat 
sleeve  ripped  from  the  shoulder,  and  blood 
trickling  down  his  arm  on  to  his  clothes;  inside, 
on  the  seat,  was  another  with  his  right  leg  bare 
and  a  red  gash  showing  above  the  knee.  He 
looked  dazed,  but  was  smoking  a  cigarette. 

"Stopped  a  packet,  matey?"  Stoner  en- 
quired. 

"Got  a  scratch,  but  it's  not  worth  while 
talking  about,"  was  the  answer.  "I'll  remem- 
ber you  to  your  English  friends  when  I  get 
back." 

"You're  all  right,  matey,"  said  a  regular 
soldier  who  stood  on  the  pavement,  addressing 
the  wounded  man.  "I'd  give  five  pounds  for 
a  wound  like  that.  You're  damned  lucky, 
and  it's  your  first  journey!" 

"Have  you  been  long  out  here?"  asked 
Teak. 

"Only  about  nine  months,"  replied  the 
regular.  "There  are  seven  of  the  old  regi- 
ment left,  and  it  makes  me  wish  this  damned 
business  was  over  and  done  with." 

"Ye  don't  like  war,  then  ?" 

"Like  it !    Who  likes  it  ?  only  them  that's  miles 


60  The  Red  Horizon 

away  from  the  stinks,  and  cold,  and  heat,  and 
everything  connected  with  the work." 

"But  this  is  a  holy  war,"  said  Pryor,  an 
inscrutable  smile  playing  round  his  lips.  "God's 
with  us,  you  know." 

"We're  placing  more  reliance  on  gunpowder 
than  on  God,"  I  remarked. 

"Blimey!  talk  about  God!"  said  the  regular. 
"There's  more  of  the  damned  devil  in  this  than 
there  is  of  anything  else.  They  take  us  out  of 
the  trenches  for  a  rest,  send  us  to  church,  and 
tell  us  to  love  our  neighbours.  Blimey !  next  day 
they  send  you  up  to  the  trenches  again  and  tell 
you  to  kill  like  'ell." 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  a  bayonet  charge?" 
asked  Stoner. 

"Four  of  them,"  we  were  told,  "and  I  don't 
like  the  blasted  work,  never  could  stomach  it." 

The  ambulance  waggon  whirred  off,  and  the 
march  was  resumed. 

We  were  now  about  a  mile  from  the  enemy's 
lines,  and  well  into  the  province  of  death  and 
desolation.  We  passed  the  last  ploughman. 
He  was  a  mute,  impotent  figure,  a  being  in  rags, 
guiding  his  share,  and  turning  up  little  strips  of 
earth  on  his  furrowed  world.  The  old  home, 
now  a  jumble  of  old  bricks  getting  gradually 


First  Blood  61 

hidden  by  the  green  grasses,  the  old  farm  holed 
by  a  thousand  shells,  the  old  plough,  and  the 
old  horses  held  him  in  bondage.  There  was  no 
other  world  for  the  man;  he  was  a  dumb 
worker,  crawling  along  at  the  rear  of  the 
destructive  demon  War,  repairing,  as  far  as  he 
was  able,  the  damage  which  had  been  done. 

We  came  to  a  village,  literally  buried.  Holes 
dug  by  high  explosive  shells  in  the  roadway  were 
filled  up  with  fallen  masonry.  This  was  a  point 
at  which  the  transports  stopped.  Beyond  this, 
man  was  the  beast  of  burden — the  thing  that  with 
scissors-like  precision  cut  off,  pace  by  pace,  the 
distance  between  him  and  the  trenches.  There 
is  something  pathetic  in  the  forward  crawl,  in 
the  automatic  motion  of  boots  rising  and  falling 
at  the  same  moment ;  the  gleaming  sword  handles 
waving  backwards  and  forwards  over  the  hip, 
and,  above  all,  in  the  stretcher-bearers  with 
stretchers  slung  over  their  shoulders  marching 
along  in  rear.  The  march  to  battle  breathes  of 
something  of  an  inevitable  event,  of  forces  mov- 
ing towards  a  destined  end.  All  individuality  is 
lost,  the  thinking  ego  is  effaced,  the  men  are 
spokes  in  a  mighty  wheel,  one  moving  because  the 
other  must,  all  fearing  death  as  hearty  men  fear 
it,  and  all  bent  towards  the  same  goal. 


62  The  Red  Horizon 

We  were  marched  to  a  red  brick  building 
with  a  shrapnel-shivered  roof,  and  picks  and 
shovels  were  handed  out  to  us. 

"You've  got  to  help  to  widen  the  com- 
munication trench  to-day!"  we  were  told  by  an 
R.E.  officer  who  had  taken  charge  of  our  platoon. 

As  we  were  about  to  start  a  sound  made  quite 
familiar  to  me  what  time  I  was  in  England  as 
a  marker  at  our  rifle  butts,  cut  through  the  air, 
and  at  the  same  moment  one  of  the  stray  dogs 
which  haunt  their  old  and  now  unfamiliar  locali- 
ties like  ghosts,  yelled  in  anguish  as  he  was  sniff- 
ing the  gutter,  and  dropped  limply  to  the  pave- 
ment. A  French  soldier  who  stood  in  a  near 
doorway  pulled  the  cigarette  from  his  bearded 
lips,  pointed  it  at  the  dead  animal,  and  laughed. 
A  comrade  who  was  with  him  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders deprecatingly. 

"That  dashed  sniper  again!"  said  the  R.E. 
officer. 

"Where  is  he  ?"  somebody  asked  innocently. 

"I  wish  we  knew,"  said  the  officer.  "He's 
behind  our  lines  somewhere,  and  has  been  at  this 
game  for  weeks.  Keep  clear  of  the  roadway!" 
he  cried,  as  another  bullet  swept  through  the 
air,  and  struck  the  wall  over  the  head  of  the 


First  Blood  63 

laughing  Frenchman,  who  was  busily  rolling  a 
fresh  cigarette. 

Four  of  our  men  stopped  behind  to  bury  the 
dog,  the  rest  of  us  found  our  way  into  the 
communication  trench.  A  signboard  at  the 
entrance,  with  the  words  "To  Berlin,"  stated  in 
trenchant  words  underneath,  "This  way  to  the 
war." 

The  communication  trench,  sloping  down  from 
the  roadway,  was  a  narrow  cutting  dug  into  the 
cold,  glutinous  earth,  and  at  every  fifty  paces 
in  alternate  sides  a  manhole,  capable  of  holding 
a  soldier  with  full  equipment,  was  hollowed  out 
in  the  clay.  In  front  shells  were  exploding,  and 
now  and  again  shrapnel  bullets  and  casing 
splinters  sung  over  our  heads,  for  the  most  part 
delving  into  the  field  on  either  side,  but  some- 
times they  struck  the  parapets  and  dislodged  a 
pile  of  earth  and  dust,  which  fell  on  the  floor  of 
the  trench.  The  floor  was  paved  with  bricks, 
swept  clean,  and  almost  free  from  dirt ;  there  was 
a  general  air  of  cleanliness  about  the  place,  the 
level  floor,  the  smooth  sides,  and  the  well-formed 
parapets.  An  Engineer  walking  along  the  top, 
and  well  back  from  the  side,  counted  us  as  we 
walked  along  in  line  with  him.  He  had  taken 
charge  of  our  section  as  a  working  party,  and 


64  The  Red  Horizon 

when  he  turned  to  me  in  making  up  his  tally  I 
saw  that  he  wore  a  ribbon  on  his  breast. 

"He  has  got  the  Distinguished  Conduct 
Medal,"  Mervin  whispered.  "How  did  you 
get  it?"  he  called  up  to  the  man. 

"Just  the  luck  of  war,"  was  the  modest 
answer.  "Eleven,  twelve,  thirteen,  that  will  be 
quite  sufficient  for  me.  Are  you  just  new  out?" 
he  asked. 

"Oh,  we've  been  a  few  weeks  in  training 
here." 

We  met  another  Engineer  coming  out,  his 
face  was  dripping  with  blood,  and  he  had  a 
khaki  handkerchief  tied  round  his  hand. 

"How  did  it  happen?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  a  damned  pip-squeak  (a  light  shrapnel 
shell)  caught  me  on  the  parapet,"  he  laughed, 
squeezing  into  a  manhole.  "Two  of  your  boys 
have  copped  it  bad  along  there.  No,  I  don't 
think  it  was  your  fellows.  Who  are  you?" 

"The  London  Irish." 

"Oh!  'twasn't  you,  'twas  the  ,"  he 

said,  rubbing  a  miry  hand  across  the  jaw, 
dripping  with  blood;  "I  think  the  two  poor  devils 
are  done  in.  Oh,  this  isn't  much,"  he  continued, 
taking  out  a  spare  handkerchief  and  wiping  his 


First  Blood  65 

face,  "  'twon't  bring  me  back  to  England,  worse 
luck !  Are  you  from  Chelsea  ?" 

"Yes." 

"What  about  the  chances  for  the  Cup 
Final?"  he  asked,  and  somebody  took  up  the 
thread  of  conversation  as  I  edged  on  to  the  spot 
where  the  two  men  lay. 

They  were  side  by  side,  face  upwards,  in  a 
disused  trench  that  branched  off  from  ours; 
the  hand  of  one  lay  across  the  arm  of  the  other, 
and  the  legs  of  both  were  curled  up  to  their  knees, 
almost  touching  their  chests.  They  were  mere 
boys,  clean  of  lip  and  chin  and  smooth  of  fore- 
head, no  wrinkles  had  ever  traced  a  furrow  there. 
One's  hat  was  off,  it  lay  on  the  floor  under  his 
head.  A  slight  red  spot  showed  on  his  throat, 
there  was  no  trace  of  a  wound.  His  mate's  clothes 
were  cut  away  across  the  belly,  the  shrapnel  had 
entered  there  under  the  navel,  and  a  little  blood 
was  oozing  out  on  to  the  trouser's  waist,  and 
giving  a  darkish  tint  to  the  brown  of  the  khaki. 
Two  stretcher-bearers  were  standing  by,  feeling, 
if  one  could  judge  by  the  dejected  look  on  their 
faces,  impotent  in  the  face  of  such  a  calamity. 
Two  first  field  dressings,  one  open  and  the  con- 
tents trod  on  the  ground,  the  other  fresh  as  when 
it  left  the  hands  of  the  makers,  lay  idle  beside 


66  The  Red  Horizon 

the  dead  man.  A  little  distance  to  the  rear  a 
youngster  was  looking  vacantly  across  the  para- 
pet, his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ruined  church  in  front, 
but  his  mind  seemed  to  be  deep  in  something 
else,  a  problem  which  he  failed  to  solve. 

One  of  the  stretcher-bearers  pointed  at  the 
youth,  then  at  the  hatless  body  in  the  trench. 

"Brothers/'  he  said. 

For  a  moment  a  selfish  feeling  of  satisfaction 
welled  up  in  our  lungs.  Teak  gave  it  expression, 
his  teeth  chattering  even  as  he  spoke,  "It 
might  be  two  of  us,  but  it  isn't,"  and  somehow 
with  the  thought  came  a  sensation  of  fear.  It 
might  be  our  turn  next,  as  we  might  go  under 
to-day  or  to-morrow;  who  could  tell  when  the 
turn  of  the  next  would  come?  And  all  that  day 
I  was  haunted  by  the  figure  of  the  youth  who 
was  staring  so  vacantly  over  the  rim  of  the 
trench,  heedless  of  the  bursting  shells  and  in- 
different to  his  own  safety. 

The  enemy  shelled  persistently.  Their  objec- 
tive was  the  ruined  church,  but  most  of  their 
shells  flew  wide  or  went  over  their  mark,  and 
made  matters  lively  in  Harley  Street,  which  ran 
behind  the  house  of  God. 

"Why  do  they  keep  shellin'  the  church?"  Bill 
asked  the  engineer,  who  never  left  the  parapet 


First  Blood  67 

even  when  the  shells  were  bursting  barely  a  hun- 
dred yards  away.  Like  the  rest  of  us,  Bill  took 
the  precaution  to  duck  when  he  heard  the  sound 
of  the  explosion. 

"That's  what  they  always  do,"  said  Stoner. 
"I  never  believed  it  even  when  I  read  it  in  the 
papers  at  home,  but  now " 

"They  think  that  we've  ammunition  stored 
there,"  said  the  engineer,  "and  they  always  keep 
potting  at  the  place." 

"But  have  we?" 

"I  dunno." 

"We  wouldn't  do  it,"  said  Kore,  who  was  of 
a  rather  religious  turn  of  mind.  "But  they, 
the  bounders,  would  do  anything.  Are  they 
the  brutes  the  papers  make  them  out  to  be?  Do 
they  use  dum-dum  bullets?" 

"This  is  war,  and  men  do  things  that  they'd 
not  do  in  the  ordinary  way,"  was  the  non- 
committal answer  of  the  Engineer. 

"Have  you  seen  many  killed?"  asked 
Mervin. 

"Killed!"  said  the  man  on  the  parapet.  "I 
think  I  have!  You  don't  go  through  this  and 
not  see  sights.  I  never  even  saw  a  dead  man 
before  this  war.  Now!"  he  paused.  "That — 
what  we  saw  just  now — "  he  continued,  alluding 


68  The  Red  Horizon 

to  the  death  of  the  two  soldiers  in  the  trench, 
"never  moves  me.  You'll  feel  it  a  bit  being  just 
new  out,  but  when  you're  a  while  in  the  trenches 
you'll  get  used  to  it." 

In  front  a  concussion  shell  blew  in  a  part  of 
the  trench,  filling  it  up  to  the  parapet.  That 
afternoon  we  cleared  up  the  mess  and  put  down 
a  flooring  of  bricks  in  a  newly  opened  corner. 
When  night  came  we  went  back  to  the  village  in 
the  rear.  "The  Town  of  the  Last  Woman"  our 
men  called  it.  Slept  in  cellars  and  cooked  our 
food,  our  bully  stew,  our  potatoes,  and  tea  in  the 
open.  Shells  came  our  way  continually,  but  for 
four  days  we  followed  up  our  work  and  none 
of  our  battalion  "stopped  a  packet." 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN   THE   TRENCHES 

Up  for  days  in  the  trenches, 

Working  and  working  away; 
Eight  days  up  in  the  trenches 

And  back  again  to-day. 
Working  with  pick  and  shovel, 

On  traverse,  banquette,  and  slope, 
And  now  we  are  back  and  working 

With  tooth-brush,  razor,  and  soap. 

WE  had  been  at  work  since  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  digging  away  at  the 
new  communication  trench.  It  was 
nearly  noon  now,  and  rations  had  not  come;  the 
cook's  waggons  were  delayed  on  the  road. 

Stoner,  brisk  as  a  bell  all  the  morning,  sud- 
denly flung  down  his  shovel  and  straightened 
his  back. 

"I'm  as  hungry  as  ninety-seven  pigs,"  he 
said,  and  pulled  a  biscuit  from  his  haversack. 

"Now  I've  got  'dog,'  who  has  'maggot'  ?" 

"Dog  and  maggot"  means  biscuit  and  cheese, 
but  none  of  us  had  the  latter;  cheese  is  gener- 
ally flung  into  the  incinerator,  where  it  wastes 
away  in  smoke  and  smell.  This  happened  of 

course  when  we  were  new  to  the  grind  of  war. 

69 


7O  The  Red  Horizon 

"I've  found  out  something,"  said  Mervin,  rub- 
bing the  sweat  from  his  forehead  and  looking 
over  the  parapet  towards  the  firing  line.  A  shell 
whizzed  by,  and  he  ducked  quickly.  We  all 
laughed,  the  trenches  have  got  a  humour 
peculiarly  their  own. 

"There's  a  house  in  front,"  said  Mervin, 
"where  they  sell  cafe  noir  and  pain  et  beurre." 

"Git,"  muttered  Bill.  "Blimey,  there's  no  one 
'ere  but  fools  like  ourselves." 

"I've  just  been  in  the  house,"  said  Mervin, 
who  had  really  been  absent  for  quite  half  an 
hour  previously.  "There  are  two  women  there, 
a  mother  and  daughter.  A  good-looking  girl, 
Bill."  The  eyes  of  the  Cockney  brightened. 

"Twopence  a  cup  for  black  coffee,  and  the 
same  for  bread  and  butter." 

"No  civilians  are  allowed  here,"  Pryor  re- 
marked. 

"It's  their  own  home,"  said  Mervin. 
"They've  never  left  the  place,  and  the  roof  is 
broken  and  half  the  walls  blown  away." 

"I'm  for  coffee,"  Stoner  cried,  jumping  over 
the  parapet  and  stopping  a  shower  of  muck 
which  a  bursting  shell  flung  in  his  face.  We 
were  with  him  immediately,  and  presently 
found  ourselves  at  the  door  of  a  red  brick 


In  the  Trenches  71 

cottage  with  all  the  windows  smashed,  roof  rid- 
dled with  shot,  and  walls  broken,  just  as  Mervin 
had  described. 

A  number  of  our  men  were  already  inside 
feeding.  An  elderly,  well-dressed  woman,  with 
close-set  eyes,  rather  thick  lips,  and  a  short  nose, 
was  grinding  coffee  near  a  flaming  stove,  on 
which  an  urn  of  boiling  water  was  bubbling 
merrily.  A  young  girl,  not  at  all  good-looking 
but  very  sweet  in  manner,  said  "Bonjour, 
messieurs,"  as  we  entered,  and  approached  each 
of  us  in  turn  to  enquire  into  our  needs.  Mervin 
knew  the  language,  and  we  placed  the  business 
in  his  hands,  and  sat  down  on  the  floor  paved 
with  red  bricks;  the  few  chairs  in  the  house 
were  already  occupied. 

The  house  was  more  or  less  in  a  state  of  dis- 
order; the  few  pictures  on  the  wall,  the  por- 
trait of  the  woman  herself,  The  Holy  Family 
Journeying  to  Egypt,  a  print  of  Millet's  Angelas, 
and  a  rude  etching  of  a  dog  hung  anyhow, 
the  frames  smashed  and  the  glass  broken.  A 
Dutch  clock,  with  figures  of  nymphs  on  the  face, 
and  the  timing  piece  of  a  shell  dangling  from 
the  weights,  looked  idly  down,  its  pendulum  gone 
and  the  glass  broken. 

Bill,  naughty  rascal  that  he  is,  wanted  a  kiss 


72  The  Red  Horizon 

with  his  coffee,  and  finding  that  Mervin  refused 
to  explain  this  to  the  girl,  he  undertook  the  matter 
himself. 

"Madham  mosselle,"  he  said,  lingering  over 
every  syllable,  "I  get  no  milk  with  caw  fee, 
compree  ?"  The  girl  shook  her  head,  but  seemed 
to  be  amused. 

"Not  compree,"  he  continued,  "and  me 
learnin'  the  lingo.  I  don't  like  French ;  you  spell 
it  one  way  and  speak  it  the  other.  Nark  (con- 
found) it,  I  say,  Mad-ham-moss-elle,  voo  (what's 
"give,"  Mervin?)  dunno,  that's  it.  Voo  dunno 
me  a  kiss  with  the  caw  fee,  compree,  it's  better'n 
milk." 

"Don't  be  a  pig,  Bill,"  Stoner  cut  in.  "It's  not 
fair  to  carry  on  like  that." 

"Nark  you,  Stoner!"  Bill  answered.  "It 
mayn't  be  fair,  but  it'd  be  nice  if  I  got  one." 

"Kiss  a  face  like  yours,"  muttered  Mervin; 
"she'd  have  a  taste  for  queer  things  if  she  did." 

"There's  no  accountin'  for  tastes,  you  know," 
said  Bill.  "Oh,  Blimey,  that's  done  it,"  he  cried, 
stooping  low  as  a  shell  exploded  overhead,  and 
drove  a  number  of  bullets  into  the  roof.  The 
old  woman  raised  her  head  for  a  moment  and 
crossed  herself,  then  she  continued  herwork;  the 
daughter  looked  at  Bill,  laughed,  and  punched 


In  the  Trenches  73 

him  on  the  shoulder.  In  the  action  there  was  a 
certain  contempt,  and  Bill  forthwith  relapsed  into 
silence  and  troubled  the  girl  no  further.  When 
we  got  out  to  our  work  again  he  spoke. 

"She  was  a  fine  hefty  wench,"  he  said;  "I'm 
tip  over  toes  in  love  with  her." 

"She's  not  one  that  I'd  fancy,"  said  Stoner. 

"Her  finger  nails  are  so  blunt,"  mumbled 
Pryor;  "I  never  could  stand  a  woman  with  blunt 
finger  nails." 

"What  is  your  ideal  of  a  perfect  woman, 
Pryor?"  I  asked. 

"There  is  no  perfect  woman,"  was  his  answer, 
"none  that  comes  up  to  my  ideal  of  beauty.  Has 
she  a  fair  brow  ?  It's  merely  a  space  for  wrinkles. 
Are  her  eyes  bright?  What  years  of  horror 
when  you  watch  them  grow  watery  and  weak 
with  age.  Are  her  teeth  pearly  white?  The 
toothache  grips  them  and  wears  them  down  to 
black  and  yellow  stumps.  Is  her  body  graceful, 
her  waist  slender,  her  figure  upright.  She  be- 
comes a  mother,  and  every  line  of  her  person 
is  distorted,  she  becomes  a  nightmare  to  you. 
Ah,  perfect  woman !  They  could  not  fashion  you 
in  Eden!  When  I  think  of  a  woman  washing 
herself!  Ugh!  Your  divinity  washes  the  dust 


74  The  Red  Horizon 

from  her  hair  and  particles  of  boiled  beef  from 
between  her  teeth!  Think  of  it,  Horatio!" 

"Nark  it,  you  fool,"  said  Bill,  lifting  a  fag 
end  from  the  bottom  of  the  trench  and  lighting 
it  at  mine.  "Blimey,  you're  balmy  as  nineteen 
maggots !" 

It  was  a  few  days  after  this  incident  that,  in 
the  course  of  a  talk  with  Stoner,  the  subject  of 
trenches  cropped  up. 

"There  are  trenches  and  trenches,"  Stoner 
remarked  to  me  a  few  days  ago  as  we  were  cutting 
poppies  from  the  parapet  and  flinging  the 
flowers  to  the  superior  slope.  "There  are  some 
as  I  almost  like,  some  as  I  don't  like,  and  some 
so  bad  that  I  almost  ran  away  from  them." 

For  myself  I  dislike  the  narrow  trench,  the 
one  in  which  the  left  side  keeps  fraying  the  cloth 
of  your  sleeve,  and  the  right  side  strives  to  open 
furrows  in  your  hand.  You  get  a  surfeit  of 
damp,  earthy  smell  in  your  nostrils,  a  choking 
sensation  in  your  throat,  for  the  place  is  suffocat- 
ing. The  narrow  trench  is  the  safest,  and  most 
of  the  English  communication  trenches  are 
narrow — so  narrow,  indeed,  that  a  man  with  a 
pack  often  gets  held,  and  sticks  there  until  his 
comrades  pull  him  clear. 

The  communication  trenches  serve,  however, 


In  the  Trenches  75 

for  more  purposes  than  for  the  passage  of  troops ; 
during  an  attack  the  reserves  wait  there, 
packed  tight  as  sardines  in  a  tin.  When  a  man 
lies  down  he  lies  on  his  mate,  when  he  stands  up, 
if  he  dare  to  do  such  a  thing,  he  runs  the  risk 
of  being  blown  to  eternity  by  a  shell.  Rifles, 
packs,  haversacks,  bayonets,  and  men  are  all 
messed  up  in  an  intricate  jumble,  the  reserves  lie 
down  like  rats  in  a  trap,  with  their  noses  to  the 
damp  earth,  which  always  reminds  me  of  the 
grave.  For  them  there  is  not  the  mad  exhilara- 
tion of  the  bayonet  charge,  and  the  relief  of 
striking  back  at  the  aggressor.  They  lie  in  wait, 
helpless,  unable  to  move  backward  or  forward, 
ears  greedy  for  the  latest  rumours  from  the 
active  front,  and  hearts  prone  to  feelings  of  de- 
pression and  despair. 

The  man  who  is  seized  with  cramp  groans 
feebly,  but  no  one  can  help  him.  To  rise  is  to 
court  death,  as  well  as  to  displace  a  dozen  grum- 
bling mates  who  have  inevitably  become  part  of 
the  human  carpet  that  covers  the  floor  of  the 
trench.  A  leg  moved  disturbs  the  whole  pattern ; 
the  sufferer  can  merely  groan,  suffer,  and  wait. 
When  an  attack  is  on  the  communication  trenches 
are  persistently  shelled  by  the  enemy  with  a  view 
to  stopping  the  advance  of  reinforcements.  Once 


76  The  Red  Horizon 

our  company  lay  in  a  trench  as  reserves  for  four- 
teen hours,  and  during  that  time  upwards  of  two 
thousand  shells  were  hurled  in  our  direction,  our 
trench  being  half  filled  with  rubble  and  clay. 
Two  mates,  one  on  my  right  and  one  on  my  left, 
were  wounded.  I  did  not  receive  a  scratch,  and 
Stoner  slept  for  eight  whole  hours  during  the  can- 
nonade. 

Before  coming  out  here  I  formed  an  imaginary 
picture  of  the  trenches,  ours  and  the  enemy's, 
running  parallel  from  the  Vosges  in  the  South 
to  the  sea  in  the  North.  But  what  a  difference 
I  find  in  the  reality.  Where  I  write  the  trenches 
run  in  a  strange,  eccentric  manner.  At  one 
point  the  lines  are  barely  eighty  yards  apart; 
the  ground  there  is  under  water  in  the  wet  season ; 
the  trench  is  built  of  sandbags;  all  rifle  fire  is 
done  from  loopholes,  for  to  look  over  the  parapet 
is  to  court  certain  death.  A  mountain  of  coal- 
slack  lies  between  the  lines  a  little  further  along, 
which  are  in  "dead"  ground  that  cannot  be  cov- 
ered by  rifle  fire,  and  are  1,200  yards  apart.  It 
is  here  that  the  sniper  plies  his  trade.  He  hides 
somewhere  in  the  slack,  and  pots  at  our  men  from 
dawn  to  dusk  and  from  dusk  to  dawn.  He  knows 
the  range  of  every  yard  of  our  communication 


In  the  Trenches  77 

trenches.  As  we  come  in  we  find  a  warning 
board  stuck  up  where  the  parapet  is  crumbling 
away.  "Stoop  low,  sniper,"  and  we  crouch  along 
head  bent  until  the  danger  zone  is  past. 

Little  mercy  is  shown  to  a  captured  sniper; 
a  short  shrift  and  swift  shot  is  considered  meet 
penalty  for  the  man  who  coolly  and  coldly  singles 
out  men  for  destruction  day  by  day.  There  was 
one,  however,  who  was  saved  by  Irish  hospitality. 
An  Irish  Guardsman,  cleaning  his  telescopic-rifle 
as  he  sat  on  the  trench  banquette,  and  smoking 
one  of  my  cigarettes  told  me  the  story. 

"The  coal  slack  is  festooned  with  devils  of 
snipers,  smart  fellows  that  can  shoot  round  a 
corner  and  blast  your  eye-tooth  out  at  five  hun- 
dred yards,"  he  said.  "They're  not  all  their  ones, 
neither;  there's  a  good  sprinkling  of  our  own 
boys  as  well.  I  was  doing  a  wee  bit  of  pot-shot- 
and-be-damned-to-you  work  in  the  other  side  of 
the  slack,  and  my  eyes  open  all  the  time  for  an 
enemy's  back.  There  was  one  near  me,  but  I'm 
beggared  if  I  could  find  him.  Til  not  lave  this 
place  till  I  do/  I  says  to  meself,  and  spent  half  the 
nights  I  was  there  prowlin'  round  like  a  dog  at  a 
fair  with  my  eyes  open  for  the  sniper.  I  came 
on  his  post  wan  night.  I  smelt  him  out  because 


78  The  Red  Horizon 

he  didn't  bury  his  sausage  skins  as  we  do,  and 
they  stunk  like  the  hole  of  hell  when  an  ould 
greasy  sinner  is  a-fryin'.  In  I  went  to  his  sand- 
bagged castle,  with  me  gun  on  the  cock  and  me 
finger  on  the  trigger,  but  he  wasn't  there;  there 
was  nothin'  in  the  place  but  a  few  rounds  of  ball 
an'  a  half  empty  bottle.  I  was  dhry  as  a  bone, 
and  I  had  a  sup  without  winkin'.  'Mother  of 
Heaven/  I  says,  when  I  put  down  the  bottle,  'it's 
little  ye  know  of  hospitality,  stranger,  leaving  a 
bottle  with  nothin'  in  it  but  water.  I'll  wait  for 
ye,  me  bucko,'  and  I  lay  down  in  the  corner  and 
waited  for  him  to  come  in. 

"But  sorrow  the  fut  of  him  came,  and  me 
waiting  there  till  the  colour  of  day  was  in  the 
sky.  Then  I  goes  back  to  me  own  place,  and 
there  was  he  waiting  for  me.  He  only  made  one 
mistake ;  he  had  fallen  to  sleep,  and  he  just  sprung 
up  as  I  came  in  be  the  door. 

"Immediately  I  had  him  by  the  big  toe.  'Hands 
up,  Hans' !  I  said,  and  he  didn't  argue,  all  that 
he  did  was  to  swear  like  one  of  ourselves  and 
flop  down.  'Why  don't  ye  bury  yer  sausages, 
Hans?'  I  asked  him.  'I  smelt  yer,  me  bucko,  by 
what  ye  couldn't  eat.  Why  didn't  ye  have  some- 
thing better  than  water  in  yer  bottle?'  I  says  to 


In  the  Trenches  79 

him.  Dang  a  Christian  word  would  he  answer, 
only  swear,  an'  swear  with  nothin'  bar  the  pull  of 
me  finger  betwixt  him  and  his  Maker.  But,  ye 
know,  I  had  a  kind  of  likin'  for  him  when  I 
thought  of  him  comin'  in  to  my  house  without  as 
much  as  yer  leave,  and  going  to  sleep  just  as  if 
he  was  in  his  own  home.  I  didn't  swear  back  at 
him  but  just  said,  'This  is  only  a  house  for  wan, 
but  our  King  has  a  big  residence  for  ye,  so  come 
along  before  it  gets  any  clearer/  and  I  took  him 
over  to  our  trenches  as  stand-to  was  coming  to 
an  end." 

Referring  again  to  our  trenches  there  is  one 
portion  known  to  me  where  the  lines  are  barely 
fifty  yards  apart,  and  at  the  present  time  the 
grass  is  hiding  the  enemy's  trenches;  to  peep 
over  the  parapet  gives  one  the  impression  of  look- 
ing on  a  beautiful  meadow  splashed  with  daisy, 
buttercup,  and  poppy  flower;  the  whole  is  a  riot 
of  colour — crimson,  heliotrope,  mauve,  and  green. 
What  a  change  from  some  weeks  ago !  Then  the 
place  was  littered  with  dead  bodies,  and  limp,  life- 
less figures  hung  on  to  the  barbed  wire  where  they 
had  been  caught  in  a  mad  rush  to  the  trenches 
which  they  never  took.*  A  breeze  blows  across 

*  The  London  Irish  charged  over  this  ground  later,  and 
entered  Loos  on  Saturday,  25th  September,  1915. 


8o  The  Red  Horizon 

the  meadow  as  I  write,  carrying  with  it  the  odour 
of  death  and  perfumed  flowers,  of  aromatic  herbs 
and  summer,  of  desolation  and  decay.  It  is  good 
that  Nature  does  her  best  to  blot  out  all  traces 
of  the  tragedy  between  the  trenches. 

There  is  a  vacant  spot  in  our  lines,  where  there 
is  no  trench  and  none  being  constructed;  why 
this  should  be  I  do  not  know.  But  all  this  ground 
is  under  machine-gun  fire  and  within  rifle  range. 
No  foe  would  dare  to  cross  the  open,  and  the  foe 
who  dared  would  never  live  to  get  through. 
Further  to  the  right  is  a  pond  with  a  dead  Ger- 
man stuck  there,  head  down,  and  legs  up  in  air. 
They  tell  me  that  a  concussion  shell  has  struck 
him  since  and  part  of  his  body  was  blown  over  to 
our  lines.  At  present  the  pond  is  hidden  and  the 
light  and  shade  plays  over  the  kindly  grasses  that 
circle  round  it.  On  the  extreme  right  there  is  a 
graveyard.  The  trench  is  deep  in  dead  men's 
bones  and  is  considered  unhealthy.  A  church 
almost  razed  to  the  ground,  with  the  spire  blown 
off  and  buried  point  down  in  the  earth,  moulders 
in  ruins  at  the  back.  It  is  said  that  the  ghosts 
of  dead  monks  pray  nightly  at  the  shattered  altar, 
and  some  of  our  men  state  that  they  often  hear 
the  organ  playing  when  they  stand  as  sentries  on 
the  banquette. 


In  the  Trenches  81 

"The  fire  trench  to-night,"  said  Stoner  that 
evening,  a  nervous  light  in  his  soft  brown  eyes, 
as  he  fumbled  with  the  money  on  the  card  table. 
His  luck  had  been  good,  and  he  had  won  over 
six  francs;  he  generally  loses.  "Perhaps  we're 
in  for  the  high  jump  when  we  get  up  there." 

"The  high  jump?"  I  queried,  "what's  that?" 

"A  bayonet  charge,"  he  replied,  dealing  a  final 
hand  and  inviting  us  to  double  the  stakes  as 
the  deal  was  the  last.  A  few  wanted  to  play  for 
another  quarter  of  an  hour,  but  he  would  not 
prolong  the  game.  Turning  up  an  ace  he  shoved 
the  money  in  his  pocket  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

In  an  hour  we  were  ready  to  move.  We  car- 
ried much  weight  in  addition  to  our  ordinary 
load,  firewood,  cooking  utensils,  and  extra  loaves. 
We  bought  the  latter  at  a  neighbouring  boulan- 
gerie,  one  that  still  plied  its  usual  trade  in  danger- 
ous proximity  to  the  firing-line. 

The  loaves  cost  6^/2 d.  each,  and  we  prefer  them 
to  the  English  bread  which  we  get  now  and  again, 
and  place  them  far  above  the  tooth-destroying 
army  biscuits.  Fires  were  permitted  in  the 
trenches,  we  were  told,  and  our  officers  advised 
us  to  carry  our  own  wood  with  us.  So  it  came 
about  that  the  enemy's  firing  served  as  a  useful 
purpose;  we  pulled  down  the  shrapnel  shattered 


82  The  Red  Horizon 

rafters  of  our  billets,  broke  them  up  into  splin- 
ters with  our  entrenching  tools,  and  tied  them  up 
into  handy  portable  bundles  which  we  tied  on 
our  packs. 

At  midnight  we  entered  Harley  Street,  and 
squeezed  our  way  through  the  narrow  trench. 
The  distance  to  the  firing-line  was  a  long  one; 
traverse  and  turning,  turning  and  traverse, 
we  thought  we  should  never  come  to  the  end  of 
them.  There  was  no  shelling,  but  the  questing 
bullet  was  busy ;  it  sung  over  our  heads  or  snapped 
at  the  sandbags  on  the  parapet,  ever  busy  on 
the  errand  of  death  and  keen  on  its  mission.  But 
deep  down  in  the  trench  we  regarded  it  with  in- 
difference. Our  way  was  one  of  safety.  Here 
the  bullet  was  foiled,  and  pick  and  shovel  reigned 
masters  in  the  zone  of  death. 

We  were  relieving  the  Scots  Guards  (many 
of  my  Irish  friends  belong  to  this  regiment). 
Awaiting  our  coming,  they  stood  in  the  full 
marching  order  of  the  regulations,  packs  light, 
forks  and  spoons  in  their  puttees,  and  all  little 
luxuries  which  we  still  dared  to  carry  flung  away. 
They  had  been  holding  the  place  for  seven  days, 
and  were  now  going  back  somewhere  for  a  rest. 

"Is  this  the  firing-line?"  asked  Stoner. 


In  the  Trenches  83 

"Yes,  sonny,"  came  the  answer  in  a  voice  which 
seemed  to  be  full  of  weariness. 

"Quiet  here?"  Mervin  enquired,  a  note  of  awe 
in  his  voice. 

"Nothing  doing,"  said  a  fresh  voice  that  re- 
minded me  forcibly  of  Glasgow  and  the  Cow- 
caddens.  "It's  a  gey  soft  job  here." 

"No  casualties?" 

"Yin  or  twa  stuck  their  heads  o'er  the  parapet 
when  they  shouldn't  and  they  copped  it,"  said 
Glasgow,  "but  barrin'  that  'twas  quiet." 

In  the  traverse  where  I  was  planted  I  dropped 
into  Ireland;  heaps  of  it.  There  was  the 
brogue  that  could  be  cut  with  a  knife,  and  the 
humour  that  survived  Mons  and  the  Marne,  and 
the  kindliness  that  sprang  from  the  cabins  of 
Corrymeela  and  the  moors  of  Derrynane. 

"Irish?"  I  asked. 

"Sure,"  was  the  answer.  "We're  everywhere. 
Ye'll  find  us  in  a  Gurkha  regiment  if  you  scratch 
the  beggars'  skins.  Ye're  not  Irish !" 

"I  am,"  I  answered. 

"Then  you've  lost  your  brogue  on  the  boat  that 
took  ye  over,"  somebody  said.  "Are  ye  dry?" 

I  wiped  the  sweat  from  my  forehead  as  I  sat 
down  on  the  banquette.  "Is  there  something  to 
drink?"  I  queried. 


84  The  Red  Horizon 

"There's  a  drop  of  cold  tay,  me  boy,"  the  man 
near  me  replied.  "Where's  yer  mess-tin,  Mike?" 

A  tin  was  handed  to  me,  and  I  drank  greedily 
of  the  cold  black  tea.  The  man  Mike  gave  some 
useful  hints  on  trench  work. 

"It's  the  Saxons  that's  across  the  road,"  he 
said,  pointing  to  the  enemy's  lines  which  were 
very  silent.  I  had  not  heard  a  bullet  whistle 
over  since  I  entered  the  trench.  On  the  left  was 
an  interesting  rifle  and  machine  gun  fire  all  the 
time.  "They're  quiet  fellows,  the  Saxons;  they 
don't  want  to  fight  any  more  than  we  do,  so  there's 
a  kind  of  understanding  between  us.  Don't  fire 
at  us  and  we'll  not  fire  at  you.  There's  a  good 
dug-out  there,"  he  continued,  pointing  to  a  dark 
hole  in  the  parados  (the  rear  wall  of  the  trench), 
"and  ye'll  find  a  pot  of  jam  and  half  a  loaf  in 
the  corner.  There's  also  a  water  jar  half  full." 

"Where  do  you  get  water?" 

"Nearly  a  mile  away  the  pump  is,"  he  an- 
swered. "Ye've  to  cross  the  fields  to  get  it." 

"A  safe  road?"  asked  Stoner. 

"Not  so  bad,  ye  know,"  was  the  answer. 

"This  place  smells  'orrid,"  muttered  Bill,  light- 
ing a  cigarette  and  flinging  off  his  pack.  "What  is 
it?" 


In  the  Trenches  85 

"Some  poor  devils  between  the  trenches; 
they've  been  lyin'  there  since  last  Christmas." 

"Blimey,  what  a  stink,"  muttered  Bill.  "Why 
don't  ye  bury  them  up?" 

"Because  nobody  dare  go  out  there,  me  boy," 
was  the  answer.  "Anyway,  it's  Germans  they 
are.  They  made  a  charge  and  didn't  get  as  far 
as  here.  They  went  out  of  step  so  to  speak." 

"Woo-oo-oo!"  Bill  suddenly  yelled  and  kicked 
a  tin  pail  on  to  the  floor  of  the  trench.  A  shower 
of  sparks  flew  up  in  the  air  and  fluttered  over 
the  rim  of  the  parapet.  "I  put  my  'and  on  it, 
'twas  like  a  red  'ot  poker,  it  burned  me  to  the 
bone!" 

"It's  the  brazier  ye  were  foolin'  about  with," 
said  Mike,  who  was  buckling  his  pack-straps  pre- 
paratory to  moving.  "See,  and  don't  put  yer  head 
over  the  top,  and  don't  light  a  fire  at  night.  Ye 
can  put  up  as  much  flare  as  you  like  by  day. 
Good-bye,  boys,  and  good  luck  t'ye." 

"Any  Donegal  men  in  the  battalion?"  I 
called  after  him  as  he  was  moving  off. 

"None  that  I  know  of,"  he  shouted  back, 
"but  there  are  two  other  battalions  that  are 
not  here,  maybe  there  are  Donegal  men  there. 
Good  luck,  boys,  good  luck !" 

We  were  alone  and  lonely,  nearly  every  man 


86  The  Red  Horizon 

of  us.  For  myself  I  felt  isolated  from  the  whole 
world,  alone  in  front  of  the  little  line  of  sand 
bags  with  my  rifle  in  my  hand.  Who  were  we? 
Why  were  we  there?  Goliath,  the  junior  clerk, 
who  loved  Tennyson;  Pryor,  the  draughtsman, 
who  doted  on  Omar;  Kore,  who  read  Fanny 
Eden's  penny  stories,  and  never  disclosed  his  pro- 
fession; Mervin,  the  traveller,  educated  for  the 
Church  but  schooled  in  romance;  Stoner,  the 
clerk,  who  reads  my  books  and  says  he  never 
read  better;  and  Bill,  newsboy,  street-arab,  and 
Lord  knows  what,  who  reads  The  Police  News, 
plays  innumerable  tricks  with  cards,  and  gambles 
and  never  wins.  Why  were  we  here  holding  a 
line  of  trench,  and  ready  to  take  a  life  or  give 
one  as  occasion  required?  Who  shall  give  an 
answer  to  the  question? 


CHAPTER  VII 

BLOOD   AND   IRON — AND  DEATH 

At  night  the  stars  are  shining  bright, 

The  old  world  voice  is  whispering  near, 
We've  heard  it  when  the  moon  was  light, 

And  London's  streets  were  very  dear; 
But  dearer  now  they  are,  sweetheart, 

The  'buses  running  to  the   Strand, 
But  we're  so  far,  so  far  apart, 

Each  lonely  in  a  different  land. 

THE  night  was  murky  and  the  air  was 
splashed  with  rain.  Following  the  line 
of  trench  I  could  dimly  discern  the 
figures  of  my  mates  pulling  off  their  packs  and 
fixing  their  bayonets.  These  glittered  brightly 
as  the  dying  fires  from  the  trench  braziers  caught 
them,  and  the  long  array  of  polished  blades  shone 
into  their  place  along  the  dark  brown  sandbags. 
Looking  over  the  parados  I  could  see  the  country 
in  rear,  dim  in  the  hazy  night.  A  white,  nebulous 
fog  lay  on  the  ground  and  enveloped  the  lone  trees 
that  stood  up  behind.  Here  and  there  I  could 

discern  houses  where  no  light  shone,  and  where 

87 


88  The  Red  Horizon 

no  people  dwelt.  All  the  inhabitants  were  gone, 
and  in  the  village  away  to  the  right  there  was 
absolute  silence,  the  stillness  of  the  desert.  To 
my  mind  came  words  I  once  read  or  heard 
spoken,  "The  conqueror  turns  the  country  into  a 
desert,  and  calls  it  peace." 

I  clamped  my  bayonet  into  its  standard  and 
rested  the  cold  steel  on  the  parapet,  the  point 
showing  over;  and  standing  up  I  looked  across 
to  the  enemy's  ground. 

"They're  about  three  hundred  yards  away," 
somebody  whispered,  taking  his  place  at  my  side. 
"I  think  I  can  see  their  trenches." 

An  indistinct  line  which  might  have  been  a 
parapet  of  sandbags,  became  visible  as  I  stared 
through  the  darkness;  it  looked  very  near,  and 
my  heart  thrilled  as  I  watched.  Suddenly  a 
stream  of  red  sparks  swooped  upwards  into  the 
air  and  circled  towards  us.  Involuntarily  I 
stooped  under  cover,  then  raised  my  head  again. 
High  up  in  the  air  a  bright  flame  stood  motionless 
lighting  up  the  ground  in  front,  the  space  be- 
tween the  lines.  Every  object  was  visible :  a  tree 
stripped  of  all  its  branches  stood  bare,  outlined 
in  black;  at  its  foot  I  could  see  the  barbed  wire 
entanglements,  the  wire  sparkling  as  if  bur- 
nished; further  back  was  a  ruined  cottage,  the 


Blood  and  Iron — and  Death       89 

bare  beams  and  rafters  giving  it  the  appearance 
of  a  skeleton.  A  year  ago  a  humble  farmer  might 
have  lived  there;  his  children  perhaps  played 
where  dead  were  lying.  I  could  see  the  German 
trench,  the  row  of  sandbags,  the  country  to  rear, 
a  ruined  village  on  a  hill,  the  flashes  of  rifles  on 
the  left  .  .  .  the  flare  died  out  in  mid-air  and 
darkness  cloaked  the  whole  scene  again. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Stoner?"  I  asked 
the  figure  by  my  side. 

"My  God,  it's  great,"  he  answered.  "To  think 
that  they're  over  there,  and  the  poor  fellows 
lying  out  on  the  field!" 

"They're  their  own  bloomin'  tombstones,  any- 
way," said  Bill,  cropping  up  from  somewhere. 

"I  feel  sorry  for  the  poor  beggars,"  I  said. 

"They'll  feel  sorry  for  themselves,  the  beg- 
gars," said  Bill. 

"There,  what's  that?" 

It  crept  up  like  a  long  white  arm  from  behind 
the  German  lines,  and  felt  nervously  at  the  clouds 
as  if  with  a  hand.  Moving  slowly  from  North 
to  South  it  touched  all  the  sky,  seeking  for 
something.  Suddenly  it  flashed  upon  us,  almost 
dazzling  our  eyes.  In  a  flash  Bill  was  upon  the 
banquette. 

"Nark  the  doin's,  nark  it,"  he  cried  and  fired 


9O  The  Red  Horizon 

his  rifle.  The  report  died  away  in  a  hundred 
echoes  as  he  slipped  the  empty  cartridge  from 
its  breech. 

"That's  one  for  them,"  he  muttered. 

"What  did  you  fire  at?"  I  asked. 

"The  blasted  searchlight,"  he  replied,  rubbing 
his  little  potato  of  a  nose.  "That's  one  for  'em, 
another  shot  nearer  the  end  of  the  war!" 

"Did  you  hit  it?"  asked  our  corporal. 

"I  must  'ave  'it  it,  I  fired  straight  at  it." 

"Splendid,  splendid,"  said  the  corporal.  "It's 
only  about  three  miles  away  though." 

"Oh,  blimey!  .  .  ." 

Sentries  were  posted  for  the  night,  one  hour 
on  and  two  off  for  each  man  until  dawn.  I  was 
sentry  for 'the  first  hour.  I  had  to  keep  a  sharp 
look  out  if  an  enemy's  working  party  showed 
itself  when  the  rockets  went  up.  I  was  to  fire 
at  it  and  kill  as  many  men  as  possible.  One 
thinks  of  things  on  sentry-go. 

"How  can  I  reconcile  myself  to  this,"  I  asked, 
shifting  my  rifle  to  get  nearer  the  parapet.  "Who 
are  those  men  behind  the  line  of  sandbags  that 
I  should  want  to  kill  them,  to  disembowel  them 
with  my  sword,  blow  their  faces  to  pieces  at  three 
hundred  yards,  bomb  them  into  eternity  at  a  word 
of  command.  Who  am  I  that  I  should  do  it: 


Blood  and  Iron — and  Death       91 

what  have  they  done  to  me  to  incur  my  wrath? 
I  am  not  angry  with  them;  I  know  little  of  the 
race;  they  are  utter  strangers  to  me;  what  am  I 
to  think,  why  should  I  think? 

"Bill,"  I  called  to  the  Cockney,  who  came  by 
whistling,  "what  are  you  doing?" 

"I'm  havin'  a  bit  of  rooty  (food)  'fore  goin' 
to  kip  (sleep)." 

"Hungry?" 

1  'Ungry  as  an  'awk,"  he  answered.  "Give 
me  a  shake  when  your  turn's  up ;  I'm  sentry  after 
you." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Bill!" 

"Pat?" 

"Do  you  believe  in  God?" 

"Well,  I  do  and  I  don't,"  was  the  answer. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  don't  'old  with  the  Christian  business,"  he 
replied,  "but  I  believe  in  God." 

"Do  you  think  that  God  can  allow  men  to  go 
killing  one  another  like  this?" 

"Maybe  'E  can't  help  it." 

"And  the  war  started  because  it  had  to  be  ?" 

"It  just  came — like  a  war-baby." 

Another  pause. 


92  The  Red  Horizon 

"Yer  write  songs,  don't  yer?"  Bill  suddenly 
asked. 

"Sometimes." 

"Would  yer  write  me  one,  just  a  little  one?" 
he  continued.  "There  was  a  bird  (girl)  where 
I  used  to  be  billeted  at  St.  Albans,  and  I  would 
like  to  send  'er  a  bit  of  poetry." 

"You've  fallen  in  love?"  I  ventured. 

"No,  not  so  bad  as  that " 

"You've  not  fallen  in  love." 

"Well,  it's  like  this,"  said  my  mate.  "I  used 
to  be  in  'er  'ouse  and  she  made  'ome-made  tor  fee." 

"Made  it  well?" 

"Blimey,  yes;  'twas  some  stuff,  and  I  used  to 
get  'caps  of  it.  She  used  to  slide  down  the  banis- 
ters, too.  Yer  should  'ave  seen  it,  Pat.  It  almost 
made  me  write  poetry  myself." 

"I'll  try  and  do  something  for  you,"  I  said. 
"Have  you  been  in  the  dug-out  yet  ?" 

"Yes,  it's  not  such  a  bad  place,  but  there's  seven 
of  us  in  it,"  said  Bill.  "It's  'ot  as  'ell.  But  we 

wouldn't  be  so  bad  if  Z was  out  of  it.  I 

don't  like  the  feller." 

"Why?"  I  asked;  Z was  one  of  our  thir- 
teen, but  he  couldn't  pull  with  us.  For  some 
reason  or  other  we  did  not  like  him. 

"Oh,  I  don't  like  'im,  that's  all,"  was  the  an- 


Blood  and  Iron — and  Death       93 

swer.  "Z tries  to  get  the  best  of  everything. 

Give  ye  a  drink  from  'is  water  bottle  when  your 
own's  empty,  'e  wouldn't.  I  wouldn't  trust  'im 
that  much."  He  clicked  his  thumb  and  middle 
finger  together  as  he  spoke,  and  without  another 
word  he  vanished  into  the  dug-out. 

On  the  whole  the  members  of  our  section, 
divergent  as  the  poles  in  civil  life,  agree  very 
well.  But  the  same  does  not  hold  good  in  the 
whole  regiment;  the  public  school  clique  and  the 
board  school  clique  live  each  in  a  separate  world, 
and  the  line  of  demarcation  between  them  is 
sharply  drawn.  We  all  live  in  similar  dug-outs, 
but  we  bring  a  new  atmosphere  into  them.  In 
one,  full  of  the  odour  of  Turkish  cigarettes,  the 
spoken  English  is  above  suspicion;  in  another, 
stinking  of  regimental  shag,  slang  plays  skittles 
with  our  language.  Only  in  No.  3  is  there  two 
worlds  blent  in  one;  our  platoon  officer  says  that 
we  are  a  most  remarkable  section,  consisting  of 
literary  men  and  babies. 

"Stand-to!" 

I  rose  to  my  feet,  rubbing  the  sleep  from  my 
eyes,  and  promptly  hit  my  head  a  resounding 
blow  on  the  roof.  The  impact  caused  me  to  take 
a  pace  forward,  and  my  boot  rested  on  Stoner's 
face. 


94  The  Red  Horizon 

"Get  out  of  it,  you  clumsy  Irish  beggar!"  he 
yelled,  jumping  up  and  stumbling  over  Mervin, 
who  was  presently  afoot  and  marching  over  an- 
other prostrate  form. 

"Stand-to!    Stand-to!" 

We  shuffled  out  into  the  open,  and  took  up  our 
posts  on  the  banquette,  each  in  fighting  array, 
equipped  with  150  rounds  of  ball  cartridge  and 
entrenching  tool  handle  on  hip.  In  the  trenches 
we  always  sleep  in  our  equipment,  by  day  we  wear 
our  bayonets  in  scabbard,  at  night  the  bayonets 
are  always  fixed. 

"Where's  Z ?"  asked  Stoner,  as  we  stood 

to  our  rifles. 

"In  the  dug-out,"  I  told  him,  "he's  asleep." 

"  'E  is,  is  'e?"  yelled  Bill,  rushing  to  the  door. 
"Come  out  of  it,  lazybones,"  he  called.  "Show  a 
leg  at  once,  and  grease  to  your  gun.  The  Ger- 
mans are  on  the  top  of  us.  Come  out  and  get 
shot  in  the  open." 

Z stumbled  from  his  bed  and  blinked  at  us 

as  he  came  out. 

"Is  it  true,  Bill,  are  they  'ere  ?"  he  asked. 

"If  they  were  'ere  you'd  be  a  lot  of  good,  you 
would,"  said  Bill.  "Get  on  with  the  work." 

In  the  dusk  and  dawning  we  stand-to  in  the 
trenches  ready  to  receive  the  enemy  if  he  attempt 


Blood  and  Iron — and  Death      95 

to  charge.  Probably  on  the  other  side  he  waits 
for  our  coming.  Each  stand-to  lasts  for  an  hour, 
but  once  in  a  fog  we  stood  for  half  a  day. 

The  dawn  crept  slowly  up  the  sky,  the  firing 
on  the  left  redoubled  in  intensity,  but  we  could 
not  now  see  the  flashes  from  the  rifles.  The  last 
star-rocket  rose  from  the  enemy's  trench,  hung 
bright  in  mid-air  for  a  space,  and  faded  away. 
The  stretch  of  ground  between  the  trenches 
opened  up  to  our  eyes.  The  ruined  cottage,  cold 
and  shattered,  standing  mid-way,  looked  lonely 
and  forbidding.  Here  and  there  on  the  field  I 
could  see  grey,  inert  objects  sinking  down,  as  it 
were,  on  the  grass. 

"I  suppose  that's  the  dead,  the  things  lying 
on  the  ground,"  said  Stoner.  "They  must  be 
cold,  poor  devils;  I  almost  feel  sorry  for  them." 

The  birds  were  singing,  .a  blackbird  hopped  on 
to  the  parapet,  looked  enquiringly  in,  his  yellow 
bill  moving  from  side  to  side,  and  fluttered  away ; 
a  lark  rose  into  the  heavens  warbling  for  some 
minutes,  a  black  little  spot  on  the  grey  clouds; 
he  sang,  then  sank  to  earth  again,  finding  a 
resting  place  amongst  the  dead.  We  could  see 
the  German  trenches  distinctly  now,  and  could 
almost  count  the  sandbags  on  the  parapet. 


96  The  Red  Horizon 

Presently  on  my  right  a  rifle  spoke.  Bill  was 
firing  again. 

"Nark  the  doin's,  Bill,  nark  it,"  Goliath 
shouted,  mimicking  the  Cockney  accent.  "You'll 
annoy  those  good  people  across  the  way." 

"An'  if  I  do!" 

"They  may  fire  at  you!"  said  monumental 
Goliath  with  fine  irony. 

"Then  'ere's  another,"  Bill  replied,  and  fired 
again. 

"Don't  expose  yourself  over  the  parapet,"  said 
our  officer,  going  his  rounds.  "Fire  through  the 
loop-holes  if  you  see  anything  to  fire  at,  but  don't 
waste  ammunition." 

The  loop-holes,  drilled  in  steel  plates  wedged 
in  the  sandbags,  opened  on  the  enemy's  .lines ;  a 
hundred  yards  of  this  front  was  .covered  by  each 
rifle ;  we  had  one  loop-hole  in  every  six  yards,  and 
by  day  every  sixth  man  was  posted  as  sentry. 

Stoner,  diligent  worker  that  he  is,  set  about 
preparing  breakfast  when  stand-to  was  over. 
In  an  open  space  at  the  rear  of  the  dug-out  he 
fixed  his  brazier,  chopped  some  wood,  and  soon 
had  the  regimental  issue  of  coke  ablaze. 

"I'll  cut  the  bacon,"  I  said,  producing  the  meat 
which  I  had  carried  with  me. 


Blood  and  Iron — and  Death       97 

"Put  the  stuff  down  here,"  said  Stoner,  "and 
clear  out  of  it." 

Stoner,  busy  on  a  job,  brooks  no  argument; 
he  always  wants  to  do  the  work  himself.  I  stood 
aside  and  watched.  Suddenly  an  object,  about 
the  size  of  a  fat  sausage,  spun  like  a  big,  lazy 
bee  through  the  air,  and  fifty  paces  to  rear,  behind 
a  little  knoll,  it  dropped  quietly,  as  if  selecting  a 
spot  to  rest  on. 

"It's  a  bird,"  said  Stoner,  "one  without  wings." 

It  exploded  with  terrific  force,  and  blew  the 
top  of  the  knoll  into  the  air;  a  shower  of  dust 
swept  over  our 'heads,  and  part  of  it  dropped  into 
Stoner's  fire. 

"That's  done  it,"  he  exclaimed ;  "what  the  devil 
was  it?" 

No  explanation  was  forthcoming,  but  later  we 
discovered  that  it  was  a  bomb,  one  of  the  morn- 
ing greetings  that  now  and  again  come  to  us  from 
the  German  trench  mortars.  This  was  the  first 
we  had  seen ;  some  of  our  fellows  have  since  been 
killed  by  them;  and  the  blue-eyed  Jersey  youth 
who  was  my  friend  at  St.  Albans,  and  who  has 
been  often  spoken  of  in  my  little  volume  The 
Amateur  Army,  came  face  to  face  with  one  in 
the  trenches  one  afternoon.  It  had  just  been 
flung  in,  and,  accompanied  by  a  mate,  my  friend 


98  The  Red  Horizon 

rounded  a  traverse  in  a  deserted  trench  and  saw 
it  lying  peacefully  on  the  floor. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  coming  to  a  halt. 

"I  don't  know,  it  looks  like  a  bomb!"  was  the 
sudden  answering  yell.  "Run." 

A  dug-out  was  near,  and  both  shoved  in,  the 
Jersey  boy  last.  But  the  bomb  was  too  quick  for 
him.  Half  an  hour  later  the  stretcher-bearers 
carried  him  out,  wounded  in  seventeen  places. 

Stoner's  breakfast  was  a  grand  success.  The 
tea  was  admirable  and  the  bacon,  fried  in  the 
mess-tin  lids,  was  done  to  a  turn.  In  the  matter 
of  food  we  generally  fare  well,  for  our  boys  get 
a  great  amount  of  eatables  from  home,  also  they 
have  money  to  spend,  and  buy  most  of  their  food 
whenever  that  is  possible. 

In  the  forenoon  Pryor  and  I  took  up  two 
earthen  jars,  a  number  of  which  are  supplied 
to  the  trenches,  and  went  out  with  the  intention  of 
getting  water.  We  had  a  long  distance  to  go,  and 
part  of  the  way  we  had  to  move  through  the 
trenches,  then  we  had  to  take  the  road  branching 
off  to  the  rear.  The  journey  was  by  no  means  a 
cheery  one;  added  to  the  sense  of  suffocation, 
which  I  find  peculiar  to  the  narrow  trench,  were 
the  eternal  soldiers'  graves.  At  every  turn  where 
the  parados  opened  to  the  rear  they  stared  you  in 


Blood  and  Iron — and  Death       99 

the  face,  the  damp,  clammy,  black  mounds  of  clay 
with  white  crosses  over  them.  Always  the  story 
was  the  same;  the  rude  inscription  told  of  the 
same  tragedy :  a  soldier  had  been  killed  in  action 
on  a  certain  date.  He  might  have  been  an  officer, 
otherwise  he  was  a  private,  a  being  with  a  name 
and  number ;  cold  and  silent  by  the  trench  in  which 
he  died  fighting.  His  mates  had  placed  little 
bunches  of  flowers  on  his  grave  when  they 
buried  him.  Then  his  regiment  moved  off  and 
the  flowers  faded.  In  some  cases  the  man's  cap 
was  left  on  the  black  earth,  where  the  little  blades 
of  kindly  grass  were  now  covering  it  up. 

Most  of  the  trench-dwellers  were  up  and  about, 
a  few  were  cooking  late  breakfasts,  and  some 
were  washing.  Contrary  to  orders,  they  had 
stripped  to  the  waist  as  they  bent  over  their  little 
mess-tins  of  soapy  water;  all  the  boys  seemed 
familiar  with  trench  routine.  They  were  deep 
in  argument  at  the  door  of  one  dug-out,  and  al- 
most came  to  blows.  The  row  was  about  rations. 
A  light-limbed  youth,  with  sloping  shoulders, 
had  thrown  a  loaf  away  when  coming  up  to  the 
trenches.  He  said  his  pack  was  heavy  enough 
without  the  bread.  His  mates  were  very  angry 
with  him. 

"Throwin'  the  grub  away!"  one  of  them  said. 


ioo  The  Red  Horizon 

"Blimey,  to  do  a  thing  like  that !  Get  out,  Spud 
'Iggles!" 

"Why  didn't  yer  carry  the  rooty  yourself?" 

"Would  one  of  us  not  carry  it?" 

"Would  yer!" 

"Why  didn't  ye  take  it  then?" 

"Why  didn't  ye  give  it  to  us  ?" 

"Blimey,  listen  to  yer  jor !"  said  Spud  Higgles, 
the  youth  with  the  sloping  shoulders.  "Clear  out 
of  it,  miff  said,  ye  brainless  twisters!" 

"I've  more  brains  than  you  have,"  said  one 
of  the  accusers  who,  stripped  to  the  waist,  was 
washing  himself. 

"  'Ave  yer?  so  'ave  I,"  was  the  answer  of  the 
boy  who  lost  the  loaf,  as  he  raised  a  mess-tin  of 
tea  from  the  brazier. 

"Leave  down  that  mess-tin  for  a  minute  and 
111  show  yer  who  has  the  most  brains,"  said  the 
man  who  was  washing,  sweeping  the  soapsuds 
from  his  eyes  and  bouncing  into  an  aggressive 
attitude,  with  clenched  fists  before  him,  in  true 
fighting  manner. 

"Leave  down  yer  mess-tin,  and  I'll  show 
yer." 

"Leave  down  my  mess-tin!"  was  the  answer. 
"Catch  me!  I've  lost  things  that  way  before." 

Spud  Higgles  came  off  victor  through  his  apt 


Blood  and  Iron — and  Death     101 

sarcasm.  The  sarcastic  remark  tickled  the  listen- 
ers, and  they  laughed  the  aggressive  soldier  into 
silence. 

A  number  of  men  were  asleep,  the  dug-outs 
were  crowded,  and  a  few  were  asleep  on  the  ban- 
quette, their  legs  stretched  out  on  the  sandbag 
platforms,  their  arms  hanging  loosely  over  the 
side,  and  their  heads  shrouded  in  Balaclava  hel- 
mets. At  every  loop-hole  a  sentry  stood  in  silent 
watch,  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  sandbags  ahead. 
Now  and  again  a  shot  was  fired,  and  sometimes, 
a  soldier  enthusiastic  in  a  novel  position,  fired 
several  rounds  rapid  across  No-man's  land  into 
the  enemy's  lines,  but  much  to  the  man's  discom- 
fiture no  reply  came  from  the  other  side. 

"Firm'  at  beastly  sandbags!"  one  of  the  men 
said  to  me,  "Blimey,  that's  no  game.  Yer  'ere 
and  the  sandbags  is  there,  you  never  see  anything, 
and  you've  to  fire  at  nothin'.  They  call  this  war. 
Strike  me  ginger  if  it's  like  the  pictures  in  The 
Daily ;  them  papers  is  great  liars!" 

"Do  you  want  to  kill  men?"  I  asked. 

"What  am  I  here  for?"  was  the  rejoinder. 
"If  I  don't  kill  them  they'll  kill  me." 

No  trench  is  straight  at  any  place ;  the  straight 
line  is  done  away  with  in  the  make-up  of  a  trench. 
The  traverse,  jutting  out  in  a  sharp  angle  to  the 


IO2  The  Red  Horizon 

rear,  gives  way  in  turn  to  the  fire  position,  curv- 
ing towards  the  enemy,  and  there  is  never  more 
than  twelve  yards  liable  to  be  covered  by  enfilade 
fire.  The  traverse  is  the  home  of  spare  ammuni- 
tion, of  ball  cartridge,  bombs,  and  hand-grenades. 
These  are  stored  in  depots  dug  into  the  wall  of 
the  trench.  There  are  two  things  which  find  a 
place  anywhere  and  everywhere,  the  biscuit  and 
the  bully  beef.  Tins  of  both  are  heaped  in  the 
trenches;  sometimes  they  are  used  for  building 
dug-outs  and  filling  revetments.  Bully  beef  and 
biscuits  are  seldom  eaten;  goodness  knows  why 
we  are  supplied  with  them. 

We  came  into  the  territory  of  another  bat- 
talion, and  were  met  by  an  officer. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked. 

"For  water,  sir,"  said  Pryor. 

"Have  you  got  permission  from  your  cap- 
tain?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Then  you  cannot  get  by  here  without  it.  It's 
a  Brigade  order,"  said  the  officer.  "One  of  our 
men  got  shot  through  the  head  yesterday  when 
going  for  water." 

"Killed,  sir,"  I  enquired. 

"Killed  on  the  spot,"  was  the  answer. 


Blood  and  Iron — and  Death     103 

On  our  way  back  we  encountered  our  captain 
superintending  some  digging  operation. 

"Have  you  got  the  water  already?"  he  asked. 

"No,  sir." 

"How  is  that?" 

"An  officer  of  the wouldn't  let  us  go  by 

without  a  written  permission." 

"Why?" 

"He  said  it  was  a  Brigade  order,"  was  Pryor's 
naive  reply.  He  wanted  to  go  up  that  perilous 
road.  The  captain  sat  down  on  a  sandbag,  took 
out  a  slip  of  paper  (or  borrowed  one  from 
Pryor),  placed  his  hat  on  his  knee  and  the  paper 
on  his  hat,  and  wrote  us  out  the  pass. 

For  twenty  yards  from  the  trench  the  road 
was  sheltered  by  our  parapet,  past  that  lay  the 
beaten  zone,  the  ground  under  the  enemy's  rifle 
fire.  He  occupied  a  knoll  on  the  left,  the  spot 
where  the  fighting  was  heavy  on  the  night  before, 
and  from  there  he  had  a  good  view  of  the  road. 
We  hurried  along,  the  jars  striking  against  our 
legs  at  every  step.  The  water  was  obtained  from 
a  pump  at  the  back  of  a  ruined  villa  in  a  desolate 
village.  The  shrapnel  shivered  house  was  named 
Dead  Cow  Cottage.  The  dead  cow  still  lay  in 
the  open  garden,  its  belly  swollen  and  its  left  legs 
sticking  up  in  the  air  like  a  knife  and  fork  in  a 


104  The  Red  Horizon 

potato  pudding.  It  smelt  abominably,  but  nobody 
dared  go  out  into  the  open  to  bury  it. 

The  pump  was  known  as  Cock  Robin  Pump. 
A  pencilled  notice  told  that  a  robin  was  killed  by 
a  Jack  Johnson  near  the  spot  on  a  certain  date. 
Having  filled  our  jars,  Pryor  and  I  made  a  tour 
of  inspection  of  the  place. 

In  a  green  field  to  the  rear  we  discovered  a 
graveyard,  fenced  in  except  at  our  end,  where  a 
newly  open  grave  yawned  up  at  us  as  if  aweary 
of  waiting  for  its  prey. 

"Room  for  extension  here,"  said  Pryor.  "I 
suppose  they'll  not  close  in  this  until  the  graves 
reach  the  edge  at  the  other  side.  Let's  read  the 
epitaphs." 

How  peaceful  the  place  was.  On  the  right  I 
could  see  through  a  space  between  the  walls  of 
the  cottage  the  wide  winding  street  of  the  village, 
the  houses,  cornstacks,  and  the  waving  bushes, 
and  my  soul  felt  strangely  quieted.  In  its  peace, 
in  its  cessation  from  labour,  there  was  neither 
anxiety  nor  sadness,  there  remained  rest,  placid 
and  sad.  It  seemed  as  if  the  houses,  all  intact  at 
this  particular  spot,  held  something  sacred  and 
restful,  that  with  them  and  in  them  all  was  good. 
They  knew  no  evil  or  sorrow.  There  was  peace, 
the  desired  consummation  of  all  things — peace 


Blood  and  Iron — and  Death     105 

brought  about  by  war,  the  peace  of  the  desert,  and 
death. 

I  looked  at  the  first  grave,  its  cross,  and  the 
rude  lettering.  This  was  the  epitaph;  this  and 
nothing  more: — 

"An  Unknown  British  Soldier." 

On  a  grave  adjoining  was  a  cheap  gilt  vase 
with  flowers,  English  flowers,  faded  and  dying. 
I  looked  at  the  cross.  One  of  the  Coldstream 
Guards  lay  there  killed  in  action  six  weeks  before. 
I  turned  up  the  black-edged  envelope  on  the  vase, 
and  read  the  badly  spelt  message,  "From  his 
broken-hearted  wife  and  loving  little  son 
Tommy." 

We  gazed  at  it  for  a  moment  in  silence.  Then 
Pryor  spoke.  "I  think  we'll  go  back,"  he  said, 
and  there  was  a  strained  note  in  his  voice;  it 
seemed  as  if  he  wanted  to  hide  something. 

On  our  way  out  to  the  road  we  stopped  for  a 
moment  and  gazed  through  the  shattered  window 
of  Dead  Cow  Cottage.  The  room  into  which  we 
looked  was  neatly  furnished.  A  round  table 
with  a  flower  vase  on  it  stood  on  the  floor,  a  num- 
ber of  chairs  in  their  proper  position  were  near 
the  wall,  a  clock  and  two  photos,  one  of  an  elderly 
man  with  a  heavy  beard,  the  other  of  a  frail, 


io6  The  Red  Horizon 

delicate  woman,  were  on  the  mantel-piece.  The 
pendulum  of  the  clock  hung  idle;  it  must  have 
ceased  going  for  quite  a  long  time.  As  if  to 
heighten  a  picture  of  absolute  comfort  a  cat  sat 
on  the  floor  washing  itself. 

"Where  will  the  people  be?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Pryor.  "Those 
chairs  will  be  useful  in  our  dug-out.  Shall  we 
take  them?" 

We  took  one  apiece,  and  with  chair  on  our 
head  and  jar  in  hand  we  walked  towards  the 
trenches.  The  sun  was  out,  and  it  was  now  very 
hot.  We  sweated.  My  face  became  like  a  wet 
sponge  squeezed  in  the  hand;  Pryor's  face 
was  very  red. 

"We'll  have  a  rest,"  he  said,  and  laying  down 
the  jar  he  placed  his  chair  in  the  road  and  sat 
on  it.  I  did  the  same. 

"You  know  Omar  ?"  he  asked. 

"In  my  calf-age  I  doated  on  him,"  I  answered. 

"What's  the  calf-age?" 

"The  sentimental  period  that  most  young  fel- 
lows go  through,"  I  said.  "They  then  make 
sonnets  to  the  moon,  become  pessimistic,  criticise 
everything,  and  feel  certain  that  they  will  become 
the  hub  of  the  universe  one  day.  They  prefer 
vegetable  food  to  pork,  and  read  Omar." 


Blood  and  Iron  —  and  Death     107 

Have  you  come  through  the  calf-age?" 
Years    ago!      You'll    come    through,    too, 


A  bullet  struck  the  leg  of  my  chair  and  carried 
away  a  splinter  of  wood.  I  got  to  my  feet  hur- 
riedly. "Those  trenches  seem  quite  a  distance 
away,"  I  said,  hoisting  my  chair  and  gripping 
the  jar  as  I  moved  off,  "and  we'll  be  safer  when 
we're  there." 

All  the  way  along  we  were  sniped  at,  but  we 
managed  to  get  back  safely.  Finding  that  our 
supply  of  coke  ran  out  we  used  the  chairs  for 
firewood. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

TERRORS   OF  THE   NIGHT 

Buzz  fly  and  gad  fly,  dragon  fly  and  blue, 
When  you're  in  the  trenches  come  and  visit  you. 
They  revel  in  your  butter-dish  and  riot  on  your  ham, 
Drill  upon  the  army  cheese  and  loot  the  army  jam. 
They're  with  you  in  the  dusk  and  the  dawning  and  the  noon, 
They  come  in  close  formation,  in  column  and  platoon. 
There's  never  zest  like  Tommy's  zest  when  these  have  got 

to  die: 
For  Tommy  takes  his  puttees  off  and  straffs  the  blooming  fly. 

SOME  are  afraid  of  one  thing,  and  some 
are  afraid  of  another,"  said  Stoner,  perch- 
ing himself  on  the  banquette  and  looking 
through  the  periscope  at  the  enemy's  lines.   "For 
myself  I  don't  like  shells — especially  when  in  the 
open,  even  if  they  are  bursting  half  a  mile  away." 
"Is  that  what  you  fear  most?"  I  asked. 
"No,  the  rifle  bullet  is  a  thing  I  dread;  the 
saucy  little  beggar  is  always  on  the  go." 

"What  do  you  fear  most,  Goliath?"  I  asked 
the  massive  soldier  who  was  cleaning  his  bayonet 
with  a  strip  of  emery  cloth. 

"Bombs,"  said  the  giant,  "especially  the  one  I 
met  in  the  trench  when  I  was  going  round  the 

108 


Terrors  of  the  Night  109 

traverse.  It  lay  on  the  floor  in  front  of  me.  I 
hardly  knew  what  it  was  at  first,  but  a  kind  of 
instinct  told  me  to  stand  and  gaze  at  it.  The 
Germans  had  just  flung  it  into  the  trench,  and 
there  it  lay,  the  bounder,  making  up  its  mind  to 
explode.  It  was  looking  at  me,  I  could  see  its 
eyes " 

"Git  out/'  said  Bill,  who  was  one  of  the  party. 

"Of  course,  you  couldn't  see  the  thing's  eyes," 
said  Goliath,  "you  lack  imagination.  But  I  saw 
its  eyes,  and  the  left  one  was  winking  at  me. 
I  almost  turned  to  jelly  with  fear,  and  Lord  knows 
how  I  got  back  round  the  corner.  I  did,  however, 
and  then  the  bomb  went  bang !  'Twas  some  bang 
that;  I  often  hear  it  in  my  sleep  yet." 

"We'll  never  hear  the  end  of  that  blurry 
bomb,"  said  Bill.  "For  my  own  part  I  am  more 
afraid  of " 

"What?" 

" the  sergeant-major  than  anythink  in 

this  world  or  in  the  next!" 

I  have  been  thrilled  with  fear  three  times  since 
I  came  out  here,  fear  that  made  me  sick  and  cold. 
I  have  the  healthy  man's  dislike  of  death.  I  have 
no  particular  desire  to  be  struck  by  a  shell  or  a 
bullet,  and  up  to  now  I  have  had  only  a  nodding 
acquaintance  with  either.  I  am  more  or  less 


no  The  Red  Horizon 

afraid  of  them,  but  they  do  not  strike  terror  into 
me.  Once,  when  we  were  in  the  trenches,  I  was 
sentry  on  the  parapet  about  one  in  the  morning. 
The  night  was  cold,  there  was  a  breeze  crooning 
over  the  meadows  between  the  lines,  and  the  air 
was  full  of  the  sharp,  penetrating  odour  of  aro- 
matic herbs.  I  felt  tired  and  was  half  asleep 
as  I  kept  a  lazy  look-out  on  the  front  where 
the  dead  are  lying  on  the  grass.  Suddenly, 
away  on  the  right,  I  heard  a  yell,  a  piercing, 
agonising  scream,  something  uncanny  and  ter- 
rible. A  devil  from  the  pit  below  getting  torn 
to  pieces  could  not  utter  such  a  weird  cry.  It 
thrilled  me  through  and  through.  I  had  never 
heard  anything  like  it  before,  and  hope  I  shall 
never  hear  such  a  cry  again.  I  do  not  know  what 
it  was,  no  one  knew,  but  some  said  that  it  might 
have  been  the  yell  of  a  Gurkha,  his  battle  cry, 
when  he  slits  off  an  opponent's  head. 

When  I  think  of  it,  I  find  that  my  three  thrills 
would  be  denied  to  a  deaf  man.  The  second  oc- 
curred once  when  we  were  in  reserve.  The 
stench  of  the  house  in  which  the  section  was 
billeted  was  terrible.  By  day  it  was  bad,  but 
at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  it  was  devilish.  I 
awoke  at  that  hour  and  went  outside  to  get  a 
breath  of  fresh  air.  The  place  was  so  eerie, 


Terrors  of  the  Night  in 

the  church  in  the  rear  with  the  spire  battered 
down,  the  churchyard  with  the  bones  of  the  dead 
hurled  broadcast  by  concussion  shells,  the  ruined 
houses.  ...  As  I  stood  there  I  heard  a  groan 
as  if  a  child  were  in  pain,  then  a  gurgle  as  if 
some  one  was  being  strangled,  and  afterwards  a 
number  of  short,  weak,  infantile  cries  that  slowly 
died  away  into  silence. 

Perhaps  the  surroundings  had  a  lot  to  do  with 
it,  for  I  felt  strangely  unnerved.  Where  did  the 
cries  come  from?  It  was  impossible  to  say.  It 
might  have  been  a  cat  or  a  dog,  all  sounds  be- 
come different  in  the  dark.  I  could  not  wander 
round  to  seek  the  cause.  Houses  were  battered 
down,  rooms  blocked  up,  cellars  filled  with  rub- 
ble. There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  back  to 
bed.  Maybe  it  was  a  child  abandoned  by  a 
mother  driven  insane  by  fear.  Terrible  things 
happen  in  war. 

The  third  fear  was  three  cries,  again  in  the 
dark,  when  a  neighbouring  battalion  sent  out  a 
working  party  to  dig  a  sap  in  front  of  our  lines. 
I  could  hear  their  picks  and  shovels  busy  in  front, 
and  suddenly  somebody  screamed  Oh!  Oh!  Oh! 
the  first  loud  and  piercing,  the  others  weaker 
and  lower.  But  the  exclamation  told  of  intense 


H2  The  Red  Horizon 

agony.  Afterwards  I  heard  that  a  boy  had  been 
shot  through  the  belly. 

"I  never  like  the  bloomin'  trenches,"  said 
Bill.  "It  almost  makes  me  pray  every  time  I 
go  up." 

"They're  not  really  so  bad,"  said  Pryor,  "some 
of  them  are  quite  cushy  (nice)." 

"Cushy !"  exclaimed  Bill,  flicking  the  ash  from 
his  cigarette  with  the  tip  of  his  little  finger. 
"Nark  it,  Pryor,  nark  it,  blimey,  they  are  cushy 
if  one's  not  caught  with  a  shell  goin'  in,  if  one's 
not  bombed  from  the  sky  or  mined  from  under 
the  ground,  if  a  sniper  doesn't  snipe  'arf  yer 
'ead  off,  or  gas  doesn't  send  you  to  'eaven,  or 
flies  send  you  to  the  'orspital  with  disease,  or 
rifle  grenades,  pip-squeaks,  and  whizz-bangs 
don't  blow  your  brains  out  when  you  lie  in  the 
bottom  of  the  trench  with  yer  nose  to  the  ground 
like  a  rat  in  a  trap.  If  it  wasn't  for  these  things, 
and  a  few  more,  the  trench  wouldn't  be  such  a 
bad  locality." 

He  put  a  finger  and  a  thumb  into  my  cigarette 
case,  drew  out  a  fag,  and  lit  it  off  the  stump  of 
his  old  one.  He  blew  a  puff  of  smoke  into  the 
air,  stuck  his  thumbs  behind  his  cartridge 
pouches,  and  fixed  a  look  of  pity  on  Pryor. 


Terrors  of  the  Night  113 

"What  are  the  few  more  things  that  you  did 
not  mention,  Bill?"  I  asked. 

"Few !  Blimey,  I  should  say  millions.  There's 
the  stink  of  the  dead  men  as  well  as  the  stink 
of  the  cheese,  there's  the  dug-outs  with  the 
rain  comin'  in  and  the  muck  fallin'  into  your 
tea,  the  vermin,  the  bloke  snorin'  as  won't 
let  you  to  sleep,  the  fatigues  that  come  when 
ye're  goin'  to  'ave  a  snooze,  the  rations 
late  arrivin'  and  'arf  poisonin'  you  when  they 
come,  the  sweepin'  and  brushin'  of  the  trenches, 
work  for  a  'ousemaid  and  not  a  soldier,  and 
the " 

Bill  paused,  sweating  at  every  pore. 

"Strike  me  ginger,  balmy,  and  stony,"  Bill  con- 
cluded, "if  it  were  not  for  these  few  things  the 
life  in  the  trenches  would  be  one  of  the  cushiest 
in  the  world." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  DUG-OUT   BANQUET 

You  ask  me  if  the  trench  is  safe? 
As  safe  as  home,  I  say; 
Dug-outs  are  safest  things  on  land, 
And  'buses  running  to  the  Strand 
Are  not  as  safe  as  they. 

You  ask  me  if  the  trench  is  deep? 

Quite  deep  enough  for  me, 

And  men  can  walk  where  tools  would  creep, 

And  men  can  eat  and  write  and  sleep 

And  hale  and  happy  be. 

THE  dug-out  is  the  trench  villa,  the  sol- 
diers' home,  and  is  considered  to  be 
proof  against  shrapnel  bullets  and  rifle 
fire.  Personally,  I  do  not  think  much  of  our 
dug-outs,  they  are  jerry-built  things,  loose  in 
construction,  and  fashioned  in  haste.  We  have 
kept  on  improving  them,  remedying  old  defects, 
when  we  should  have  taken  the  whole  thing  to 
pieces  and  started  afresh.  The  French  excel  us 
in  fashioning  dug-outs;  they  dig  out,  we  build. 
They  begin  to  burrow  from  the  trench  down- 
wards, and  the  roof  of  their  shelter  is  on  a  line 

with  the  floor  of  the  trench;  thus  they  have  a 

114 


The  Dug-Out  Banquet          115 

cover  over  them  seven  or  eight  feet  in  thickness ; 
a  mass  of  earth  which  the  heaviest  shell  can 
hardly  pierce  through.  We  have  been  told  that 
the  German  trenches  are  even  more  secure,  and 
are  roofed  with  bricks,  which  cause  a  concussion 
shell  to  burst  immediately  it  strikes,  thus  mak- 
ing the  projectile  lose  most  of  its  burrowing 
power.  One  of  our  heaviest  shells  struck  an 
enemy's  dug-out  fashioned  on  this  pattern,  with 
the  result  that  two  of  the  residents  were 
merely  scratched.  The  place  was  packed  at  the 
time. 

As  I  write  I  am  sitting  in  a  dug-out  built  in 
the  open  by  the  French.  It  is  a  log  construction, 
built  of  pit-props  from  a  neighbouring  coal-mine. 
Short  blocks  of  wood  laid  criss-cross  form  walls 
four  feet  in  thickness;  the  roof  is  quite  as 
thick,  and  the  logs  are  much  longer.  Yester- 
day morning,  while  we  were  still  asleep,  a  four- 
inch  shell  landed  on  the  top,  displaced  several 
logs,  but  did  us  no  harm.  The  same  shell  (pip- 
squeaks we  call  them)  striking  the  roof  of  one 
of  our  trench  dug-outs  would  blow  us  all  to 
atoms. 

The  dug-out  is  not  peculiar  to  the  trench.  For 
miles  back  from  the  firing-line  the  country  is  a 
world  of  dug-outs;  they  are  everywhere,  by  the 


n6  The  Red  Horizon 

roadsides,  the  canals,  and  farmhouses,  in  the 
fields,  the  streets,  and  the  gardens.  Cellars 
serve  for  the  same  purpose.  A  fortnight  ago 
my  section  was  billeted  in  a  house  in  a  mining 
town,  and  the  enemy  began  to  shell  the  place 
about  midnight.  Bootless,  half-naked,  and  half 
asleep,  we  hurried  into  the  cellar.  The  place 
was  a  regular  Black  Hole  of  Calcutta.  It  was 
very  small,  damp,  and  smelt  of  queer  things, 
and  there  were  six  soldiers,  the  man  of  the 
house,  his  wife,  and  seven  children,  one  a  suck- 
ing babe  two  months  old,  cooped  up  in  the 
place. 

I  did  not  like  the  place — in  fact,  I  seldom  like 
any  dug-out,  it  reminds  me  of  the  grave,  the 
covering  earth,  and  worms,  and  always  there  is 
a  feeling  of  suffocation.  But  I  have  enjoyed  my 
stay  in  one  or  two.  There  was  a  delightful 
little  one,  made  for  a  single  soldier,  in  which  I 
stayed.  At  night  when  off  sentry,  and  when  I 
did  not  feel  like  sleeping,  I  read.  Over  my 
head  I  cut  a  niche  in  the  mud;  placed  my  can- 
dle there;  pulled  down  over  the  door  my  cur- 
tain, a  real  good  curtain,  taken  from  some 
neighbouring  chateau;  spent  a  few  moments 
watching  the  play  of  light  and  shadows  on  the 
roof,  and  listening  to  the  sound  of  guns  outside ; 


The  Dug-Out  Banquet          117 

then  lit  a  cigarette  and  read.  Old  Montaigne  in 
a  dug-out  is  a  true  friend  and  a  fine  companion. 
Across  the  ages  we  held  conversation  as  we 
have  often  done.  Time  and  again  I  have  read 
his  books;  there  was  a  time  when  for  a  whole 
year  I  read  a  chapter  nightly:  in  a  Glasgow 
doss-house,  in  a  king's  castle,  in  my  Irish  home, 
and  now  in  Montaigne's  own  country,  in  a  little 
earthy  dug-out,  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
man  again.  The  dawn  broke  to  the  clatter  of 
bayonets  on  the  fire  position  when  I  put  the  book 
aside  and  buckled  my  equipment  for  the  stand-to 
hour. 

The  French  trench  dug-outs  are  not  leaky; 
ours  generally  are,  and  the  slightest  shower 
sometimes  finds  its  way  inside.  I  have  often 
awakened  during  the  night  to  find  myself 
soaked  through  on  a  floor  covered  with  slush. 
When  the  weather  is  hot  we  sleep  outside.  In 
some  cases  the  dug-out  is  handsomely  furnished 
with  real  beds,  tables,  chairs,  mirrors,  and 
candlesticks  of  burnished  brass.  Often  there  are 
stoves  built  into  the  clayey  wall  and  used  for 
cooking  purposes.  In  "The  Savoy"  dug-out, 
which  was  furnished  after  this  fashion,  Section 
3  once  sat  down  to  a  memorable  dinner  which 
took  a  whole  day  long  to  prepare;  and  eatables 


n8  The  Red  Horizon 

and  wine  were  procured  at  great  risk  to  life. 
Incidentally,  Bill,  who  went  out  of  the 
trenches  and  walked  four  kilometres  to  pro- 
cure a  bottle  of  vin  rouge  was  rewarded  by 
seven  days'  second  field  punishment  for  his 
pains. 

Mervin  originated  the  idea  in  the  early  morn- 
ing as  he  was  dressing  a  finger  which  he  had  cut 
when  opening  a  tin  of  bully  beef.  He  held  up 
the  bleeding  digit  and  gazed  at  it  with  serious 
eyes. 

"All  for  this  tin  of  muck!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Suppose  we  have  a  good  square  meal.  I  think 
we  could  get  up  one  if  we  set  to  work." 

Stoner's  brown  eyes  sparkled  eagerly. 

"I  know  where  there  are  potatoes  and  carrots 
and  onions,"  he  said.  "Out  in  a  field  behind 
Dead  Cow  Villa;  I'm  off,  coming,  Pat?" 

"Certainly,  what  are  the  others  doing,  Bill?" 

"We  must  have  fizz,"  said  my  friend,  and 
money  was  forthwith  collected  for  wine.  Bill 
hurried  away,  his  bandolier  round  his  shoulder 
and  his  rifle  at  the  slope ;  and  Mervin  undertook 
to  set  the  place  in  order  and  arrange  the  dug- 
out for  the  banquet.  Goliath  dragged  his 
massive  weight  over  the  parados  and  busied  him- 
self pulling  flowers.  Kore  cleaned  the  mess-tins, 


The  Dug-Out  Banquet          119 

and  Pry  or,  artistic  even  in  matters  of  food,  set 
about  preparing  a  menu-card. 

When  we  returned  from  a  search  which  was 
very  successful,  Stoner  divested  himself  of  tunic 
and  hat,  rolled  up  his  shirt  sleeves,  and  got  on 
with  the  cooking.  I  took  his  turn  at  sentry-go, 
and  Z — ,  sleeping  on  the  banquette,  roused  his 
stout  body,  became  interested  for  a  moment,  and 
fell  asleep  again.  Bill  returned  with  a  bottle  of 
wine  and  seven  eggs. 

"Where  did  you  get  them?"  I  asked. 

"  'Twas  the  'en  as  'ad  laid  one,"  he  replied. 
"And  it  began  to  brag  so  much  about  it  that  I 
couldn't  stand  it,  so  I  took  the  egg,  and  it  looked 
so  lonely  all  by  itself  in  my  'and  that  I  took  the 
others  to  keep  it  company." 

At  six  o'clock  we  sat  down  to  dine. 

Our  brightly  burnished  mess-tin  lids  were  laid 
on  the  table,  a  neatly  folded  khaki  handkerchief 
in  front  of  each  for  serviette.  Clean  towels 
served  for  tablecloths,  flowers,  tiger-lilies, 
snapdragons,  pinks,  poppies,  roses,  and  corn- 
flowers rioted  in  colour  over  the  rim  of  a  looted 
vase.  In  solitary  state  a  bottle  of  wine  stood 
beside  the  flowers,  a  box  of  cigars,  the  gift  of 
a  girl  friend,  with  the  lid  open  disclosed  the 
dusky  beauties  within.  The  menu,  Pryor's  mas- 


I2O  The  Red  Horizon 

terpiece,  stood  on  a  wire  stand,  the  work  of 
Mervin. 

Goliath  seated  at  the  table,  was  smiles  all  over, 
in  fact,  he  was  one  massive  good  humoured  smile, 
geniality  personified. 

"Anything  fresh  from  the  seat  of  war?"  he 
asked,  as  he  waited  for  the  soup. 

"According  to  the  latest  reports,"  Pryor  an- 
swered, "we've  gained  an  inch  in  the  Darda- 
nelles and  captured  three  trenches  in  Flanders. 
We  were  forced  to  evacuate  two  of  these  after- 
wards." 

"We  miscalculated  the  enemy's  strength,  of 
course,"  said  Mervin. 

"That's  it,"  Pryor  cut  in.  "But  the  trenches 
we  lost  were  of  no  strategic  importance." 

"They  never  are,"  said  Kore.  "I  suppose  that's 
why  we  lose  thousands  to  take  'em,  and  the  enemy 
lose  as  many  to  regain  them." 

"Soup,  gentlemen,"  Stoner  interrupted,  bring- 
ing a  steaming  tureen  to  the  table.  "Help  your- 
selves." 

"Mulligatawny?"  said  Pryor  sipping  the  stuff 
which  he  had  emptied  into  his  mess-tin.  "I  don't 
like  this." 

"Wot,"  muttered  Bill,  "wot's  wrong  with 
it?" 


God  Save  /he 

G oft  Sf safe  fte  Coo  to 

by 'Casey  Coon 


121 


122  The  Red  Horizon 

"As  soup  it's  above  reproach,  but  the  name," 
said  Pryor.  "It's  beastly." 

"Wot's  wrong  with  it?" 

"Everything,"  said  the  artistic  youth,  "and  be- 
sides I  was  fed  as  a  child  on  mulligatawny,  fed 
on  it  until  I  grew  up  and  revolted.  To  meet  it 
again  here  in  a  dug-out.  Oh !  ye  gods !" 

"I'll  take  it,"  I  said,  for  I  had  already  finished 
mine. 

"Will  you?"  exclaimed  Pryor,  employing  his 
spoon  with  Gargantuan  zeal.  "It's  not  quite  eti- 
quette." 

As  he  spoke  a  bullet  whistled  through  the  door 
and  struck  a  tin  of  condensed  milk  which  hung 
by  a  string  from  the  rafter.  The  bullet  went 
right  through  and  the  milk  oozed  out  and  fell  on 
the  table. 

"Waiter,"  said  Goliath  in  a  sharp  voice,  fix- 
ing one  eye  on  the  cook,  and  another  on  the 
falling  milk. 

"Sir,"  answered  Stoner,  raising  his  head  from 
his  mess-tin. 

"What  beastly  stuff  is  this  trickling  down? 
You  shouldn't  allow  this  you  know." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Stoner,  "you'd  better  lick  it 
up." 

'"Ad  "e,"  cried  Bill.     "Wot  will  we  do  for 


The  Dug-Out  Banquet          123 

tea?"  The  Cockney  held  a  spare  mess-tin  under 
the  milk  and  caught  it  as  it  fell.  This  was  con- 
sidered very  unseemly  behaviour  for  a  gentle- 
man, and  we  suggested  that  he  should  go  and 
feed  in  the  servants'  kitchen. 

A  stew,  made  of  beef,  carrots,  and  potatoes 
came  next,  and  this  in  turn  was  followed  by  an 
omelette.  There  followed  a  small  portion  of 
beef  to  each  man,  we  called  this  chicken  in  our 
glorious  game  of  make-believe.  Kore  asserted 
that  he  had  caught  the  chicken  singing  The 
Watch  on  the  Rhine  on  the  top  of  a  neighbour- 
ing chateau  and  took  it  as  lawful  booty  of 
war. 

"Chicken,  my  big  toe!"  muttered  Bill,  using 
his  clasp-knife  for  a  tooth-pick.  "It's  as  tough 
as  a  rifle  sling.  Yer  must  have  got  hold  of  the 
bloomin'  weathercock." 

The  confiture  was  Stoner's  greatest  feat.  The 
sweet  was  made  from  biscuits  ground  to  powder 
boiled  and  then  mixed  with  jam.  Never  was 
anything  like  it.  We  lingered  over  the  dish  loud 
in  our  praise  of  the  energetic  Stoner.  "By  God, 
I'll  give  you  a  job  as  head-cook  in  my  establish- 
ment at  your  own  salary,"  said  Pryor.  "Strike 
me  ginger,  pink,  and  crimson  if  ever  I  ate  any- 
thing like  it,"  exclaimed  Bill.  "We  must  'ave  a 


124  The  Red  Horizon 

bit  of  this  at  every  meal  from  now  till  the  end  of 
the  war." 

Coffee,  wine,  and  cigars  came  in  due  course, 
then  Section  3  clamoured  for  an  address. 

"Ool  give  it?"  asked  Bill. 

"Pat,"  said  Mervin. 

"Come  on,  Pat,"  chorused  Section  3. 

I  never  made  a  speech  in  my  life,  but  I  felt 
that  this  was  the  moment  to  do  something.  I  got 
to  my  feet. 

"Boys,"  I  said,  "it  is  a  pleasure  to  rise  and 
address  you,  although  you  haven't  shaved  for 
days,  and  your  faces  remind  me  every  time  I  look 
at  them  of  our  rather  sooty  mess-tins." 

(Bill:  "Wot  of  yer  own  phiz.") 

"Be  quiet,  Bill,"  I  said,  and  continued.  "Of 
course,  none  of  you  are  to  blame  for  the  adhesive 
qualities  of  mud,  it  must  stick  somewhere,  and 
doubtless  it  preferred  your  faces ;  but  you  should 
have  shaved,  the  two  hairs  on  Pryor's  upper  lip 
are  becoming  very  prominent." 

"Under  a  microscope,"  said  Mervin. 

"Hold  your  tongue,"  I  shouted,  and  Mervin 
made  a  mock  apology.  "To-night's  dinner  was  a 
grand  success,"  I  said,  "all  did  their  work  ad- 
mirably." 

"All  but  you,"  muttered  Bill,  "yer  spent  'arf 


The  Dug-Out  Banquet          125 

the  time  writin'  when  yer  should  have  been  peel- 
in'  taters  or  pullin'  onions." 

"I  resent  the  imputation  of  the  gentleman 
at  the  rear,"  I  said;  "if  I  wasn't  peeling 
potatoes  and  grinding  biscuits  I  was  engaged  in 
chronicling  the  doings  of  Section  3.  I  can't 
make  you  fat  and  famous  at  the  same  time, 
much  though  I'd  like  to  do  both.  You  are  an 
estimable  body  of  men;  Goliath,  the  big  ele- 
phant—" 

(Goliath:  "Just  a  baby  elephant,  Pat.") 

"Mervin,  who  has  travelled  far  and  who  loves 
bully  stew;  Pryor  who  dislikes  girls  with  thick 
ankles,  Kore  who  makes  wash-out  puns,  Bill  who 
has  an  insatiable  desire  for  fresh  eggs,  and 
Stoner — I  see  a  flush  on  his  cheeks  and  a  sparkle 
in  his  brown  eyes  already — I  repeat  the  name 
Stoner  with  reverence.  I  look  on  the  mess-tins 
which  held  the  confiture  and  almost  weep — 
because  it's  all  eaten.  There's  only  one  thing 
to  be  done.  Gentlemen,  are  your  glasses 
charged?" 

"There's  nothin'  now  but  water,"  said  Bill. 

"Water  shame,"  remarked  the  punster. 

"Hold  your  tongues,"  I  said,  "fill  them  with 
water,  fill  them  with  anything.  Ready?  To  the 


126  The  Red  Horizon 

Section  cook,  Stoner,  long  life  and  ability  to  cook 
our  sweets  evermore." 

We  drank.  Just  as  we  had  finished,  our  com- 
pany stretcher-bearers  came  by  the  door,  a  pre- 
occupied look  on  their  faces  and  dark  clots  of 
blood  on  their  trousers  and  tunics. 

"What  has  happened  ?"  I  asked. 

"The  cooks  have  copped  it,"  one  of  the  bearers 
answered.  "They  were  cooking  grub  in  a  shed 
at  the  rear  near  Dead  Cow  Villa,  and  a  pip- 
squeak came  plunk  into  the  place.  The  head 
cook  copped  it  in  the  legs,  both  were  broken ;  and 
Erney,  you  know  Erney?" 

"Yes?"  we  chorused. 

"Dead,"  said  the  stretcher-bearer.  "Poor  fel- 
low he  was  struck  unconscious.  We  carried  him 
to  the  dressing  station,  and  he  came  to  at  the 
door.  'Mother  P  he  said,  trying  to  sit  up  on  the 
stretcher.  That  was  his  last  word.  He  fell  back 
and  died." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  glory  of  the 
flowers  seemed  to  have  faded  away  and  the 
lighted  cigars  went  out  on  the  table.  Dead! 
Poor  fellow.  He  was  such  a  clean,  hearty  boy, 
very  obliging  and  kind.  How  often  had  he  given 
me  hot  water,  contrary  to  regulations,  to  pour  on 
my  tea. 


The  Dug-Out  Banquet          127 

"To  think  of  it,"  said  Stoner.  "It  might  have 
been  any  of  us!  We  must  put  these  flowers  on 
his  grave." 

That  night  we  took  the  little  vase  with  its  pop- 
pies, cornflowers,  pinks,  and  roses,  and  placed 
them  on  the  black,  cold  earth  which  covered 
Erney,  the  clean-limbed,  good-hearted  boy.  May 
he  rest  in  peace. 


CHAPTER  X 

A   NOCTURNAL   ADVENTURE 

Our  old  battalion  billets  still, 

Parades  as  usual  go  on. 
We  buckle  in  with  right  good  will, 

And  daily  our  equipment  don 
As  if  we  meant  to  fight,  but  no! 

The  guns  are  booming  through  the  air, 
The  trenches  call  us  on,  but  oh ! 

We  don't  go  there,  we  don't  go  there ! 

I  HAVE  come  to  the  conclusion  that  war  is 
rather  a  dull  game,  not  that  blood-curdling, 
dashing,  mad,  sabre-clashing  thing  that  is 
seen  in  pictures,  and  which  makes  one  fearful  for 
the  soldier's  safety.  There  is  so  much  of  the 
"everlastin'  waitin'  on  an  everlastin'  road."  The 
road  to  the  war  is  a  journey  of  many  stages,  and 
there  is  much  of  what  appears  to  the  unit  as  loiter- 
ing by  the  wayside.  We  longed  for  action,  for 
some  adventure  with  which  to  relieve  the  period 
of  "everlastin'  waitin'." 

Nine  o'clock  was  striking  in  the  room  down- 
stairs and  the  old  man  and  woman  who  live  in 
the  house  were  pottering  about,  locking  doors, 

and  putting  the  place  into  order.    Lying  on  the 

128 


A  Nocturnal  Adventure         129 

straw  in  the  loft  we  could  hear  them  moving 
chairs  and  washing  dishes ;  they  have  seven  sons 
in  the  army,  two  are  wounded  and  one  is  a  pris- 
oner in  Germany.  They  are  very  old  and  are  un- 
able to  do  much  hard  work,  all  day  long  they 
listen  to  the  sound  of  the  guns  "out  there."  In 
the  evening  they  wash  the  dishes,  the  man  help- 
ing the  woman,  and  at  night  lock  the  doors  and 
say  a  prayer  for  their  sons.  Now  and  again  they 
speak  of  their  troubles  and  narrate  stories  of  the 
war  and  the  time  when  the  Prussians  passed  by 
their  door  on  the  journey  to  Paris.  "But  they'll 
never  pass  here  again,"  the  old  man  says,  smok- 
ing the  pipe  of  tobacco  which  our  boys  have  given 
him.  "They'll  get  smashed  out  there."  As  he 
speaks  he  points  with  a  long  lean  finger  towards 
the  firing  line,  and  lifts  his  stick  to  his  shoulder  in 
imitation  of  a  man  firing  a  rifle. 

Ten  o'clock  struck.  We  were  deep  in  our 
straw  and  lights  had  been  out  for  a  long  time. 
I  couldn't  sleep,  and  as  I  lay  awake  I  could  hear 

corpulent  Z snoring  in  the  corner.    Outside 

a  wind  was  whistling  mournfully  and  sweeping 
through  the  joists  of  the  roof  where  the  red  tiles 
had  been  shattered  by  shrapnel.  There  was 
something  melancholy  and  superbly  grand  in  the 
night;  the  heaven  was  splashed  with  stars,  and 


130  The  Red  Horizon 

the  glow  of  rockets  from  the  firing  line  lit  up 
the  whole  scene,  and  at  intervals  blotting  out  the 
lights  of  the  sky.  Here  in  the  loft  all  was  so 
peaceful,  so  quiet;  the  pair  downstairs  had  gone 
to  bed,  they  were  now  perhaps  asleep  and  dream- 
ing of  their  loved  ones.  But  I  could  not  rest; 
I  longed  to  get  up  again  and  go  out  into  the 
night. 

Suddenly  a  hand  tugged  at  my  blanket,  a  form 
rose  from  the  floor  by  my  side  and  a  face  peered 
into  mine. 

"It's  me — Bill,"  a  low  voice  whispered  in  my 


ear. 
tt 


Well?"  I  interrogated,  raising  myself  on  my 
elbow. 

"Not  sleepin'?"  mumbled  Bill,  lighting  a  ciga- 
rette as  he  flopped  down  on  my  blanket,  half 
crushing  my  toes  as  he  did  so.  "I'm  not  sleeping 
neither,"  he  continued.  "Did  you  see  the  wild 
ducks  to-day?" 

"On  the  marshes  ?    Yes." 

"Could  we  pot  one  ?" 

"Rubbish.  We  might  as  well  shoot  at  the 
stars." 

"I  never  tried  that  game,"  said  Bill,  with  mock 
seriousness.  "But  I'm  goin'  to  nab  a  duck. 
Strike  me  balmy  if  I  ain't." 


A  Nocturnal  Adventure         131 

"It'll  be  the  guard-room  if  we're  caught." 

"If  we  are  caught.  Then  you're  comin'?  I 
thought  you'd  be  game." 

I  slipped  into  my  boots,  tied  on  my  puttees, 
slung  a  bandolier  with  ten  rounds  of  ball  car- 
tridge over  my  shoulder,  and  groped  for  my  rifle 
on  the  rack  beneath  the  shrapnel  shivered  joists. 
Bill  and  I  crept  downstairs  and  stole  out  into  the 
open. 

"Gawd!  that  puts  the  cawbwebs  out  of  one's 
froat,"  whispered  my  mate  as  he  gulped  down 
mighty  mouthfuls  of  cold  night  air.  "This  is 
great.  I  couldn't  sleep." 

"But  we'll  never  hit  a  duck  to-night,"  I  whis- 
pered, my  mind  reverting  to  the  white-breasted 
fowl  which  we  had  seen  in  an  adjoining  marsh 
that  morning  when  coming  back  from  the  firing 
line.  "It's  madness  to  dream  of  hitting  one  with 
a  bullet." 

"Maybe  yes  and  maybe  no,"  said  my  mate, 
stumbling  across  the  midden  and  floundering  into 
the  field  on  the  other  side. 

We  came  to  the  edge  of  the  marsh  and  halted 
for  a  moment.  In  front  of  us  lay  a  dark  pool, 
still  as  death  and  fringed  with  long  grass  and 
osier  beds.  A  mournful  breeze  blew  across  the 
place,  raising  a  plaintive  croon,  half  of  resigna- 


132  The  Red  Horizon 

tion  and  half  of  protest  from  the  osiers  and 
grasses  as  it  passed.  A  little  distance  away  the 
skeleton  of  a  house  stood  up  naked  against  the 
sky,  the  cold  stars  shining  through  its  shattered 
rafters.  "  'Twas  shelled  like  'ell,  that  'ouse," 
whispered  Bill,  leaning  on  his  rifle  and  fixing  his 
eyes  on  the  ruined  homestead.  "The  old  man 
at  our  billet  was  tellin'  some  of  us  about  it. 
The  first  shell  went  plunk  through  the  roof 
and  two  children  and  the  mother  wrere  bowled 
over." 

"Killed?" 

"I  should  say  so,"  mumbled  my  mate;  then, 
"There's  one  comin'  our  way."  Out  over  the  line 
of  trenches  it  sped  towards  us,  whistling  in  its 
flight,  and  we  could  almost  trace  by  its  sound  the 
line  it  followed  in  the  air.  It  fell  on  the  pool  in 
front,  bursting  as  it  touched  the  water,  and  we 
were  drenched  with  spray. 

"'Urt?"  asked  Bill. 

"Just  wet  a  little." 

"A  little!"  he  exclaimed,  gazing  at  the  spot 
where  the  shell  exploded.  "I'm  soaked  to  the 
pelt.  Damn  it,  'twill  frighten  the  ducks." 

"Have  you  ever  shot  any  living  thing?"  I  asked 
my  mate  as  I  tried  to  wipe  the  water  from  my 
face  with  the  sleeve  of  my  coat. 


A  Nocturnal  Adventure         133 

"Me!  Never  in  my  nat'ral,"  Bill  explained. 
"But  when  I  saw  them  ducks  this  mornin'  I 
thought  I'd  like  to  pot  one  o'  'em." 

"It's  impossible  to  see  anything  now,"  I  told 
him.  "And  there's  another  shell!" 

It  yelled  over  our  heads  and  burst  near  our  bil- 
let on  the  soft  mossy  field  which  we  had  just 
crossed.  Another  followed,  flew  over  the  roof 
of  the  dwelling  and  shattered  the  wall  of  an  out- 
house to  pieces.  Somewhere  near  a  dog  barked 
loudly  when  the  echo  of  the  explosion  died  away, 
and  a  steed  neighed  in  the  horse-lines  on  the  other 
side  of  the  marsh.  Then,  drowning  all  other 
noises,  an  English  gun  spoke  and  a  projectile 
wheeled  through  the  air  and  towards  the  enemy. 
The  monster  of  the  thicket,  awake  from  a 
twelve  hour  sleep,  was  speaking.  Bill  and  I 
knew  where  he  was  hidden;  the  great  gun  that 
the  enemy  had  been  trying  to  locate  for  months 
and  which  he  never  discovered.  He,  the  mon- 
ster of  the  thicket,  was  working  havoc  in  the 
foeman's  trenches,  and  day  after  day  the 
great  searching  shells  sped  up  past  our  billet 
warm  from  the  German  guns,  but  always  they 
went  far  wide  of  their  mark.  Never  could 
they  discover  the  locality  of  the  terrifying  ninety- 
pounder,  he  who  slept  all  day  in  his  thicket 


134  The  Red  Horizon 

home,  awoke  at  midnight  and  worked  until 
dawn. 

"That's  some  shootin',"  said  my  mate  as  the 
shells  shrieked  overhead.  "Blimey,  they'll  shake 
the  country  to  pieces — and  scare  the  ducks." 

Along  a  road  made  of  bound  sapling-bundles 
we  took  our  way  into  the  centre  of  the  marsh. 
Here  all  was  quiet  and  sombre ;  the  marsh-world 
seemed  to  be  lamenting  over  some  ancient  wrong. 
At  times  a  rat  would  sneak  out  of  the  grass, 
slink  across  our  path  and  disappear  in  the  water, 
again,  a  lonely  bird  would  rise  into  the  air  and 
cry  piteously  as  it  flew  away,  and  ever,  loud  and 
insistent,  threatening  and  terrible,  the  shells 
would  fly  over  our  heads,  yelling  out  their  men- 
ace of  pain,  of  sorrow  and  death  as  they  flew 
along. 

We  killed  no  birds,  we  saw  none,  although  we 
stopped  out  till  the  colour  of  dawn  splashed  the 
sky  with  streaks  of  early  light.  As  we  went 
in  by  the  door  of  our  billet  the  monster  of  the 
thicket  was  still  at  work,  although  no  answering 
shells  sped  up  from  the  enemy's  lines.  Up  in 

the  loft  Z was  snoring  loudly  as  he  lay 

asleep  on  the  straw,  the  blanket  tight  round 
his  body,  his  jaw  hanging  loosely,  and  an  un- 
lighted  pipe  on  the  floor  by  his  side.  Placing 


A  Nocturnal  Adventure         135 

our  rifles  on  the  rack,  Wankin  and  I  took  off 
our  bandoliers  and  lay  down  on  our  blankets. 
Presently  we  were  asleep. 

That  was  how  Wankin  and  I  shot  wild  duck 
in  the  marshes  near  the  village  of — Somewhere 
in  France. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    MAN   WITH    THE  ROSARY 

There's  a  tramp  o'  feet  in  the  mornin', 
There's  an  oath  from  an  N.C.O., 
As  up  the   road  to  the  trenches 
The  brown  battalions  go : 
Guns  and  rifles  and  waggons, 
Transports  and  horses  and  men, 
Up  with  the  flush  of  the  dawnin', 
And  back  with  the  night  again. 

SOMETIMES  when  our  spell  in  the 
trenches  comes  to  an  end  we  go  back  for 
a  rest  in  some  village  or  town.  Here  the 
estaminet  or  debitant  (French,  as  far  as  I  am 
aware,  for  a  beer  shop),  is  open  to  the  British 
soldier  for  three  hours  daily,  from  twelve  to 
one  and  from  six  to  eight  o'clock.  For  some 
strange  reason  we  often  find  ourselves  busy  on 
parade  at  these  hours,  and  when  not  on  parade 
we  generally  find  ourselves  without  money.  I 
have  been  here  for  four  months;  looking  at  my 
pay  book  I  find  that  I've  been  paid  25  fr.  (or  in 
plain  English,  one  pound)  since  I  have  come  to 
France,  a  country  where  the  weather  grows  hot- 
ter daily,  where  the  water  is  seldom  drinkable, 

136 


The  Man  With  the  Rosary      137 

and  where  wine  and  beer  is  so  cheap.  Once  we 
were  paid  five  francs  at  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon after  five  penniless  days  of  rest  in  a  village, 
and  ordered  as  we  were  paid,  to  pack  up  our  all 
and  get  ready  to  set  off  at  six  o'clock  for  the 
trenches.  From  noon  we  had  been  playing  cards, 
and  some  of  the  boys  gambled  all  their  pay  in  ad- 
vance and  lost  it.  Bill's  five  francs  had  to  be 
distributed  amongst  several  members  of  the  pla- 
toon. 

"It's  only  five  francs,  anyway,"  he  said. 
"Wot  matter  whether  I  spend  it  on  cards,  wine, 
or  women?  I  don't  care  for  soldierin'  as  a  pro- 
fession." 

"What  is  your  profession,  Bill?"  Pryor  asked; 
we  never  really  knew  what  Bill's  civil  occupation 
was,  he  seemed  to  know  a  little  of  many  crafts, 
but  was  master  of  none. 

"I've  been  everything,"  he  replied,  employing 
his  little  finger  in  the  removal  of  cigarette  ash. 
"My  ole  man  apprenticed  me  to  a  marker  of  'ot 
cross  buns,  but  I  'ad  a  'abit  of  makin'  the  long 
end  of  the  cross  on  the  short  side,  an'  got  chucked 
out.  Then  I  learned  'ow  to  jump  through  tin 
plates  in  order  to  make  them  nutmeg  graters,  but 
left  that  job  after  sticking  plump  in  the  middle 
of  a  plate.  I  had  to  stop  there  for  three  days 


138  The  Red  Horizon 

without  food  or  drink.  They  were  thinnin'  me 
out,  see!  Then  I  was  a  draughts  manager  at  a 
bank,  and  shut  the  ventilators;  after  that  I  was 
an  electric  mechanic;  I  switched  the  lights  on 
and  off  at  night  and  mornin';  now  I'm  a  pro- 
fessional gambler,  I  lose  all  my  tin." 

"You're  also  a  soldier,"  I  said. 

"Course,  I  am,"  Bill  replied.  "I  can  present 
hipes  by  numbers,  and  knock  the  guts  out  of 
sand-bags  at  five  hundred  yards." 

We  did  not  leave  the  village  until  eight  o'clock. 
It  was  now  very  dark  and  had  begun  to  rain, 
not  real  rain,  but  a  thin  drizzle  which  mixed  up 
with  the  flashes  of  guns,  the  glow  of  starshells, 
the  long  tremulous  glimmer  of  flashlights,  the 
blood  red  blaze  of  haystacks  afire  near  Givenchy, 
threw  a  sombre  haze  over  our  line  of  march. 
Even  through  the  haze,  star-shells  showed  bril- 
liant in  their  many  different  colours,  red,  green, 
and  electric  white.  The  French  send  up  a  beau- 
.tiful  light  which  bursts  into  four  different  flames 
that  burn  standing  high  in  mid-air  for  five  min- 
utes ;  another,  a  parachute  star,  holds  the  sky  for 
three  minutes,  and  almost  blots  its  more  remote 
sisters  from  the  heavens.  The  English  and  the 
Germans  are  content  to  fling  rockets  across  and 
observe  one  another's  lines  while  these  flare  out 


The  Man  With  the  Rosary      139 

their  brief  meteoric  life.  The  firing-line  was 
about  five  miles  away;  the  starlights  seemed  to 
rise  and  fall  just  beyond  an  adjacent  spinney,  so 
deceptive  are  they. 

Part  of  our  journey  ran  along  the  bank  of  a 
canal;  there  had  been  some  heavy  fighting  the 
night  previous,  and  the  wounded  were  still  com- 
ing down  by  barges,  only  those  who  are  badly 
hurt  come  this  way,  the  less  serious  cases  go  by 
motor  ambulance  from  dressing  station  to  hos- 
pital— those  who  are  damaged  slightly  in  arm 
or  head  generally  walk.  Here  we  encountered  a 
party  of  men  marching  in  single  file  with  rifles, 
skeleton  equipment,  picks  and  shovels.  In  the 
dark  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  the  regi- 
mental badge. 

"Oo  are  yer?"  asked  Bill,  who,  like  a  good 
many  more  of  us,  was  smoking  a  cigarette  con- 
trary to  orders. 

"The  Camberwell  Gurkhas,"  came  the  answer. 
"Oo  are  yer?" 

"The  Chelsea  Cherubs,"  said  Bill.  "Up 
workin'?" 

"Doin'  a  bit  between  the  lines,"  answered  one 
of  the  working  party.  "Got  bombed  out  and  were 
sent  back." 

"Lucky  dogs,  goin'  back  for  a  kip  (sleep)." 


140  The  Red  Horizon 

"  'Ad  two  killed  and  seven  wounded." 

"Blimey!" 

"Good  luck,  boys,"  said  the  disappearing  file 
as  the  darkness  swallowed  up  the  working  party. 

The  pace  was  a  sharp  one.  Half  a  mile  back 
from  the  firing-line  we  turned  off  to  the  left  and 
took  our  way  by  a  road  running  parallel  to  the 
trenches.  We  had  put  on  our  waterproof  capes, 
our  khaki  overcoats  had  been  given  up  a  week 
before. 

The  rain  dripped  down  our  clothes,  our  faces 
and  our  necks,  each  successive  star-light  showed 
the  water  trickling  down  our  rifle  butts  and 
dripping  to  the  roadway.  Stoner  slept  as  he 
marched,  his  hand  in  Kore's.  We  often  move 
along  in  this  way,  it  is  quite  easy,  there  is  lullaby 
in  the  monotonous  step,  and  the  slumbrous 
crunching  of  nailed  boots  on  gravel. 

We  turned  off  the  road  where  it  runs  through 
the  rubble  and  scattered  bricks,  all  that  remains 
of  the  village  of  Givenchy,  and  took  our  way 
across  a  wide  field.  The  field  was  under  water 
in  the  wet  season,  and  a  brick  pathway  had  been 
built  across  it.  Along  this  path  we  took  our  way. 
A  strong  breeze  had  risen  and  was  swishing  our 
waterproofs  about  our  bodies;  the  darkness  was 
intense,  I  had  to  strain  my  eyes  to  see  the  man 


The  Man  With  the  Rosary      141 

in  front,  Stoner.  In  the  darkness  he  was  a  nebu- 
lous dark  bulk  that  sprang-  into  bold  relief  when 
the  starlights  flared  in  front.  When  the  flare 
died  out  we  stumbled  forward  into  pitch  dark 
nothingness.  The  pathway  was  barely  two  feet 
across,  a  mere  tight-rope  in  the  wide  waste,  and 
on  either  side  nothing  stood  out  to  give  relief 
to  the  desolate  scene;  over  us  the  clouds  hung 
low,  shapeless  and  gloomy,  behind  was  the  dark- 
ness, in  front  when  the  starlights  made  the  dark- 
ness visible  they  only  increased  the  sense  of 
solitude. 

We  stumbled  and  fell,  rose  and  fell  again,  our 
capes  spreading  out  like  wings  and  our  rifles  fall- 
ing in  the  mud.  The  sight  of  a  man  or  woman 
falling  always  makes  me  laugh.  I  laughed  as  I 
fell,  as  Stoner  fell,  as  Mervin,  Goliath,  Bill,  or 
Pryor  fell.  Sometimes  we  fell  singly,  again  in 
pairs,  often  we  fell  together  a  heap  of  rifles, 
khaki,  and  waterproof  capes.  We  rose  grum- 
bling, spitting  mud  and  laughing.  Stoner  was 
very  unfortunate,  a  particle  of  dirt  got  into  his 
eye,  almost  blinding  him.  Afterwards  he  crawled 
along,  now  and  again  getting  to  his  feet,  merely 
to  fall  back  into  his  earthy  position.  A  rifle  fire 
opened  on  us  from  the  front,  and  bullets  whizzed 


142  The  Red  Horizon 

past  our  ears,  voices  mingled  with  the  ting  of 
searching  bullets. 

"Anybody  hurt?" 

"No,  all  right  so  far." 

"Stoner's  down." 

"He's  up  again." 

"Blimey,  it's  a  balmy." 

"Mervin's  crawling  on  his  hands  and  knees." 

"Nark  the  doin's,  ye're  on  my  waterproof.  Let 
go!" 

"Goliath's  down." 

"Are  you  struck,  Goliath?" 

"No,  I  wish  to  heaven  I  was,"  muttered  the 
giant,  bulking  up  in  the  flare  of  a  searchlight, 
blood  dripping  from  his  face  showed  where  he 
had  been  scratched  as  he  stumbled. 

We  got  safely  into  the  trench  and  relieved 
the  Highland  Light  Infantry.  The  place  was 
very  quiet,  they  assured  us,  it  is  always  the  same. 
It  has  become  trench  etiquette  to  tell  the  relieving 
battalion  that  it  is  taking  over  a  cushy  position. 
By  this  trench  next  morning  we  found  six  newly 
made  graves,  telling  how  six  Highlanders  had 
met  their  death,  killed  in  action. 

Next  morning  as  I  was  looking  through  a 
periscope  at  the  enemy's  trenches,  and  wonder- 
ing what  was  happening  behind  their  sand-bag 


The  Man  With  the  Rosary      143 

line,  a  man  from  the  sanitary  squad  came 
along  sprinkling  the  trench  with  creosote  and 
chloride  of  lime. 

"Seein'  anything?"  he  asked. 

"Not  much,"  I  answered,  "the  grass  is  so  high 
in  front  that  I  can  see  nothing  but  the  tips  of 
the  enemy's  parapets.  There's  some  work  for  you 
here,"  I  said. 

"Where?" 

"Under  your  feet,"  I  told  him.  "The  floor  is 
soft  as  putty  and  smells  vilely.  Perhaps  there  is 
a  dead  man  there.  Last  night  I  slept  by  the 
spot  and  it  turned  me  sick." 

"Have  you  an  entrenchin'  tool?" 

I  handed  him  the  implement,  he  dug  into  the 
ground  and  presently  unearthed  a  particle  of 
clothing,  five  minutes  later  a  boot  came  to  view, 
then  a  second;  fifteen  minutes  assiduous  labour 
revealed  an  evil-smelling  bundle  of  clothing  and 
decayed  flesh.  I  still  remained  an  onlooker,  but 
changed  my  position  on  the  banquette. 

"He  must  have  been  dead  a  long  time,"  said 
the  sanitary  man,  as  he  flung  handfuls  of  lime 
on  the  body,  "see  his  face." 

He  turned  the  thing  on  its  back,  its  face  up 
to  the  sky.  The  features  were  wonderfully  well- 
preserved;  the  man  might  have  fallen  the  day 


144  The  Red  Horizon 

before.  The  nose  pinched  and  thin,  turned  up 
a  little  at  the  point,  the  lips  were  drawn  tight 
round  the  gums,  the  teeth  showed  dog-like  and 
vicious;  the  eyes  were  open  and  raised  towards 
the  forehead,  and  the  whole  face  was  splashed 
with  clotted  blood.  A  wound  could  be  seen  on 
the  left  temple,  the  fatal  bullet  had  gone  through 
there. 

"He  was  killed  in  the  winter,"  said  the  sanitary 
man,  pointing  at  the  gloves  on  the  dead  soldier's 
hand.  "These  trenches  were  the  'Allemands' ' 
then,  and  the  boys  charged  'em.  I  suppose  this 
feller  copped  a  packet  and  dropped  into  the  mud 
and  was  tramped  down." 

"Who  is  he?"  I  asked. 

The  man  with  the  chloride  of  lime  opened  the 
tunic  and  shirt  of  the  dead  man  and  brought  out 
an  identity  disc. 

"Irish,"  he  said,  "Munster  Fusiliers.  What's 
this?"  he  asked,  taking  a  string  of  beads  with 
a  little  shiny  crucifix  on  the  end  of  it,  from  the 
dead  man's  neck. 

"It's  his  rosary,"  I  said,  and  my  mind  saw  in 
a  vivid  picture  a  barefooted  boy  going  over  the 
hills  of  Corrymeela  to  morning  Mass,  with  his 
beads  in  his  hand.  On  either  side  rose  the 
thatched  cabins  of  the  peasantry,  the  peat  smoke 


The  Man  With  the  Rosary      145 

curling  from  the  chimneys,  the  little  boreens  run- 
ning through  the  bushes,  the  brown  Irish  bogs, 
the  heather  in  blossom,  the  turf  stacks,  the  laugh- 
ing colleens.  .  .  ." 

"Here's  a  letter,"  said  the  sanitary  man;  "it 
was  posted  last  Christmas.  It's  from  a  girl,  too." 

He  commenced  reading: — 

"My  dear  Patrick, — I  got  your  letter  yester- 
day, and  whenever  I  was  my  lone  the  day  I  was 
always  reading  it.  I  wish  the  black  war  was  over 
and  you  back  again — we  all  at  home  wish  that, 
and  I  suppose  yourself  wishes  it  as  well;  I  was 
up  at  your  house  last  night;  there's  not  much 
fun  in  it  now.  I  read  the  papers  to  your  mother, 
and  me  and  her  was  looking  at  a  map.  But 
we  didn't  know  where  you  were  so  we  could  only 
make  guesses.  Your  mother  and  me  is  making 
the  Rounds  of  the  Cross  for  you,  and  I  am  always 
thinking  of  you  in  my  prayers.  You'll  be  having 
the  parcel  I  sent  before  you  get  this  letter.  I 
hope  it's  not  broken  or  lost.  The  socks  I  sent 
were  knitted  by  myself,  three  pairs  of  them,  and 
I've  put  the  holy  water  on  them.  Don't  forget 
to  put  them  on  when  your  feet  get  wet,  at  home 
you  never  used  to  bother  about  anything  like 
that ;  just  tear  about  the  same  in  wet  as  dry  But 
you'll  take  care  of  yourself  now,  won't  you :  and 


146  The  Red  Horizon 

not  get  killed?  It'll  be  a  grand  day  when  you 
come  back,  and  God  send  the  day  to  come  soon ! 
Send  a  letter  as  often  as  you  can;  I  myself  will 
write  you  one  every  day,  and  I'll  pray  to  the 
Holy  Mother  to  take  care  of  you." 

We  buried  him  behind  the  parados,  and  placed 
the  rosary  round  the  arms  of  the  cross  which 
was  erected  over  him.  On  the  following  day 
one  of  our  men  went  out  to  see  the  grave,  and 
while  stooping  to  place  some  flowers  on  it  he 
got  shot  through  the  head.  That  evening  he  was 
buried  beside  the  Munster  Fusilier. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   SHELLING   OF  THE   KEEP 

A  brazier  fire  at  twilight, 
And  glow-worm  fires  ashine, 
A  searchlight  sweeping  heaven, 
Above  the  firing-line. 
The  rifle  bullet  whistles 
The  message  that  it  brings 
Of  death  and  desolation 
To  common  folk  and  kings. 

WE  went  back  from  the  trenches  as  re- 
serves to  the  Keep.  Broken  down 
though  the  place  was  when  we 
entered  it  there  was  something-  restful  in  the 
brown  bricks,  hidden  in  ivy,  in  the  well-paved 
yard,  and  the  glorious  riot  of  flowers.  Most  of 
the  original  furniture  remained — the  beds,  the 
chairs,  and  the  pictures.  All  were  delighted 
with  the  place,  Mervin  particularly.  "I'll 
make  my  country  residence  here  after  the  war," 
he  said. 

On  the  left  was  a  church.  Contrary  to  orders 
I  spent  an  hour  in  the  dusk  of  the  first  evening 
in  the  ruined  pile.  The  place  had  been  shelled 
for  seven  months;  not  a  day  had  passed  when 

147 


148  The  Red  Horizon 

it  was  not  struck  in  some  part.  The  sacristy 
was  a  jumble  of  prayer  books,  vestments,  broken 
rosaries,  crucifixes,  and  pictures.  An  ink  pot 
and  pen  lay  on  a  broken  table  beside  a  blotting 
pad.  A  lamp  which  once  hung  from  the  roof 
was  beside  them,  smashed  to  atoms.  In  the 
church  the  altar  railing  was  twisted  into  shape- 
less bars  of  iron,  bricks  littered  the  altar  steps, 
the  altar  itself  even,  and  bricks,  tiles  and 
beams  were  piled  high  in  the  body  of  the  church 
Outside  in  the  graveyard  the  graves  lay 
open  and  the  bones  of  the  dead  were  scattered 
broadcast  over  the  green  grass.  Crosses  were 
smashed  or  wrenched  out  of  the  ground  and 
flung  to  earth;  near  the  Keep  was  the  soldiers' 
cemetery,  the  resting  place  of  French,  English, 
Indian,  and  German  soldiers.  Many  of  the 
French  had  bottles  of  holy  water  placed  on  their 
graves  under  the  crosses.  The  English  epitaphs 
were  short  and  concise,  always  the  same  in 
manner:  "Private  999  J.  Smith,  26th  London 
Battalion,  killed  in  action  ist  March,  1915." 
And  under  it  stamped  on  a  bronze  plate  was 
the  information,  "Erected  by  the  Mobile  Unit 
(B.R.C.S.)  to  preserve  the  record  found  on  the 
spot."  Often  the  dead  man's  regiment  left  a 
token  of  remembrance,  a  bunch  of  flowers,  the 


The  Shelling  of  the  Keep       149 

dead  man's  cap  or  bayonet  and  rifle  (these  two 
latter  only  if  they  had  been  badly  damaged 
when  the  man  died).  Many  crosses  had  been 
taken  from  the  churchyard  and  placed  over 
these  men.  One  of  them  read,  "A  notre 
devote  fille,"  and  another,  "To  my  beloved 
mother." 

Several  Indians,  men  of  the  Bengal  Mountain 
Battery,  were  buried  here.  A  woman  it  was 
stated,  had  disclosed  their  location  to  the 
enemy,  and  the  billet  in  which  they  were 
staying  was  struck  fair  by  a  high  explosive 
shell.  Thirty-one  were  killed.  They  were  now 
at  rest — Anaytullah,  Lakhasingh,  and  other 
strange  men  with  queer  names  under  the  crosses 
fashioned  from  biscuit  boxes.  On  the  back  of 
Anaytullah's  cross  was  the  wording  in  black: 
"Biscuits,  50  Ibs." 

Thus  the  environment  of  the  Keep:  the 
enemy's  trenches  were  about  eight  hundred 
yards  away.  No  fighting  took  place  here, 
the  men's  rifles  stood  loaded,  but  no  shot  was 
fired;  only  when  the  front  line  was  broken,  if 
that  ever  took  place,  would  the  defenders  of  the 
Keep  come  into  play  and  hold  the  enemy  back  as 
long  as  that  were  possible.  Then  when  they 
could  no  longer  hold  out,  when  the  foe  pressed 


150  The  Red  Horizon 

in  on  all  sides,  there  was  something  still  to  do, 
something  vitally  important  which  would  cost  the 
enemy  many  lives,  and,  if  a  miracle  did  not  hap- 
pen, something  which  would  wipe  out  the  de- 
fenders for  ever.  This  was  the  Keep. 

The  evening  was  very  quiet;  a  few  shells 
flew  wide  overhead,  and  now  and  again  stray 
bullets  pattered  against  the  masonry.  We 
cooked  our  food  in  the  yard,  and,  sitting  down 
amidst  the  flowers,  we  drank  our  tea  and  ate 
our  bread  and  jam.  The  first  flies  were  busy, 
they  flew  amidst  the  flower-beds  and  settled 
on  our  jam.  Mervin  told  a  story  of  a  country 
where  he  had  been  in,  and  where  the  flies  were 
legion  and  ate  the  eyes  out  of  horses.  The 
natives  there  wore  corks  hung  by  strings  from 
their  caps,  and  these  kept  the  flies  away. 

"How?"  asked  Bill. 

"The  corks  kept  swinging  backwards  and 
forwards  as  the  men  walked,"  said  Mervin. 
"Whenever  a  cork  struck  a  fly  it  dashed  the 
insect's  brains  out." 

"Blimey!"  cried  Bill,  then  asked,  "What 
was  the  most  wonderful  thing  you  ever  seen, 
Mervin  ?" 

"The  most  wonderful  thing,"  repeated  Mervin. 
"Oh,  I'll  tell  you.  It  was  the  way  they  buried 


The  Shelling  of  the  Keep       151 

the  dead  out  in  Klondike.  The  snow  lies  there 
for  six  months  and  it's  impossible  to  dig,  so  when 
a  man  died  they  sharpened  his  toes  and  drove 
him  into  the  earth  with  a  mallet." 

"I  saw  a  more  wonderful  thing  than  that,  and 
it  was  when  we  lay  in  the  barn  at  Richebourg," 
said  Bill,  who  was  referring  to  a  comfortless 
billet  and  a  cold  night  which  were  ours  a  month 
earlier.  "I  woke  up  about  midnight  'arf  asleep. 
I  'ad  my  boots  off  and  I  couldn't  'ardly  feel  them, 
I  was  so  cold.  'Blimey!'  I  said,  on  goes  my 
understanding,  and  I  'ad  a  devil  of  a  job  lacing 
my  boots  up.  When  I  thought  I  'ad  them  on  I 
could  'ear  someone  stirrin'  on  the  left.  It  was 
my  cotmate.  'Wot's  yer  gime?'  he  says.  'Wot 
gime?'  I  asks.  'Yer  foolin'  about  with  my  toot- 
sies,' he  says.  Then  after  a  minute  'e  shouts, 
'Damn  it  ye've  put  on  my  boots.'  So  I  'ad,  put 
on  his  blessed  boots  and  laced  them  mistaking  'is 
feet  for  my  own." 

"We  never  heard  of  this  before,"  I  said. 

"No,  cos  'twas  ole  Jersey  as  was  lying  aside 
me  that  night,  next  day  'e  was  almost  done  in 
with  the  bomb." 

''It's  jolly  quiet  here,"  said  Goliath,  sitting  back 
in  an  armchair  and  lighting  a  cigarette.  "This 
will  be  a  jolly  holiday." 


152  The  Red  Horizon 

"I  heard  an  artillery  man  I  met  outside  say 
that  this  place  was  hot,"  Stoner  remarked.  "The 
Irish  Guards  were  here,  and  they  said  they  pre- 
ferred the  trenches  to  the  Keep." 

"It  will  be  a  poor  country  house,"  said 
Mervin,  "if  it's  going  to  be  as  bad  as  you  say." 

On  the  following  evening  I  was  standing 
guard  in  a  niche  in  the  building.  Darkness  was 
falling  and  the  shadows  sat  at  the  base  of  the 
walls  east  of  the  courtyard.  My  niche  looked 
out  on  the  road,  along  which  the  wounded  are 
carried  from  the  trenches  by  night  and  sometimes 
by  day.  The  way  is  by  no  means  safe.  As  I 
stood  there  four  men  came  down  the  road 
carrying  a  limp  form  on  a  stretcher.  A  water- 
proof ground-sheet  lay  over  the  wounded  soldier, 
his  head  was  uncovered,  and  it  wobbled  from  side 
to  side;  a  streak  of  blood  ran  down  his  face  and 
formed  into  clots  on  the  ear  and  chin.  There 
was  something  uncannily  helpless  in  the  soldier, 
his  shaking  head,  his  boots  caked  brown  with 
mud,  the  heels  close  together,  the  toes  pointing 
upwards  and  outwards  and  swaying  a  little. 
Every  quiver  of  the  body  betokened  abject  help- 
lessness. The  limp,  swaying  figure,  clinging 
weakly  to  life,  was  a  pathetic  sight. 

The  bearers  walked  slowly,  carefully,  stepping 


The  Shelling  of  the  Keep       153 

over  every  shell-hole  and  stone  on  the  road. 
The  sweat  rolled  down  their  faces  and  arms, 
their  coats  were  off  and  their  shirt  sleeves  rolled 
up  almost  to  the  shoulders.  Down  the  road 
towards  the  village  they  pursued  their  sober  way, 
and  my  eyes  followed  them.  Suddenly  they  came 
to  a  pause,  lowered  the  stretcher  to  the  ground, 
and  two  of  them  bent  over  the  prostrate  form. 
I  could  see  them  feel  the  soldier's  pulse,  open  his 
tunic,  and  listen  for  the  beating  of  the  man's 
heart ;  when  they  raised  the  stretcher  again  there 
was  something  cruelly  careless  in  the  action ;  they 
brought  it  up  with  a  jolt  and  set  off  hurriedly, 
stumbling  over  shell-hole  and  boulder.  There 
was  no  doubt  the  man  was  dead  now;  it  was 
unwise  to  delay  on  the  road,  and  the  soldiers' 
cemetery  was  in  the  village. 

In  the  evening  we  stood  to  arms  in  the  Keep ; 
all  our  men  were  now  out  in  the  open,  and  the 
officers  were  inspecting  their  rifles  barely  four 
yards  away  from  me.  At  that  moment  I  saw  the 
moon,  a  crescent  of  pale  smoke  standing  on  end 
near  the  West.  I  felt  in  my  pocket  for  money, 
but  found  I  had  none  to  turn. 

"Have  you  a  ha'penny?"  I  asked  Mervin,  who 
was  passing. 

"What  for?" 


154  The  Red  Horizon 

"I  want  to  turn  it,  you  know  the  old  custom." 

"Oh,  yes,"  answered  Mervin,  handing  me  a 
coin.  "Long  ago  I  used  to  turn  my  money,  but 
I  found  the  oftener  I  saw  the  moon  the  less  I  had 
to  turn.  However,  I'll  try  it  again  for  luck." 
So  saying  he  turned  a  penny. 

"Do  any  of  you  fellows  know  Marie  Re- 
doubt?" an  officer  asked  at  that  moment. 

"I  know  the  place,"  said  Mervin,  "it's  just 
behind  the  Keep." 

"Will  you  lead  me  to  the  place?"  said  the 
officer. 

"Right,"  said  Mervin,  and  the  two  men  went 
off. 

They  had  just  gone  when  a  shell  hit  the  build- 
ing on  my  left  barely  three  yards  away  from  my 
head.  The  explosion  almost  deafened  me,  a 
pain  shot  through  my  ears  and  eyes,  and  a 
shower  of  fine  lime  and  crumpled  bricks  whizzed 
by  my  face.  My  first  thought  was,  "Why  did 
I  not  put  my  hands  over  my  eyes,  I  might 
have  been  struck  blind."  I  had  a  clear  view 
of  the  scene  in  front,  my  mates  were  rushing 
hither  and  thither  in  a  shower  of  white  flying 
lime;  I  could  see  dark  forms  falling,  clambering 
to  their  feet  and  falling  again.  One  figure 
detached  itself  from  the  rest  and  came  rushing 


The  Shelling  of  the  Keep       155 

towards  me,  by  my  side  it  tripped  and  fell,  then 
rose  again.  I  could  now  see  it  was  Stoner. 
He  put  his  hands  up  as  if  in  protest,  looked  at 
me  vacantly,  and  rushed  round  the  corner  of 
the  building.  I  followed  him  and  found  him  once 
more  on  the  ground. 

"Much  hurt?"  I  asked,  touching  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Yes,"  he  muttered,  rising  slowly,  "I  got 
it  there,"  he  raised  a  finger  to  his  face  which 
was  bleeding,  "and  there,"  he  put  his  hand  across 
his  chest. 

"Well,  get  into  the  dug-out,"  I  said,  and  we 
hurried  round  the  front  of  the  building.  A 
pile  of  fallen  masonry  lay  there  and  half  a 
dozen  rifles,  all  the  men  were  gone.  We 
found  them  in  the  dug-out,  a  hole  under  the 
floor  heavily  beamed,  and  strong  enough  to 
withstand  a  fair-sized  shell.  One  or  two  were 
unconscious  and  all  were  bleeding  more  or 
less  severely.  I  found  I  was  the  only  person 
who  was  not  struck.  Goliath  and  Bill  got 
little  particles  of  grit  in  the  face,  and  they  looked 
black  as  chimney  sweeps.  Bill  was  cut  across 
the  hand,  Kore's  arm  was  bleeding. 

"Where's  Mervin?" 

"He   had   just   gone   out,"    I    said;   "I   was 


156  The  Red  Horizon 

speaking  to  him,  he  went  with  Lieut.  to 

Marie  Redoubt." 

I  suddenly  recollected  that  I  should  not  have 
left  my  place  outside,  so  I  went  into  my  niche 
again.  Had  Mervin  got  clear,  I  wondered? 
The  courtyard  was  deserted,  and  it  was  rapidly 
growing  darker,  a  drizzle  had  begun,  and  the 
wet  ran  down  my  rifle. 

"Any  word  of  Mervin?"  I  called  to  Stoner 
when  he  came  out  from  the  dug-out,  and  moved 
cautiously  across  the  yard.  There  was  a  certain 
unsteadiness  in  his  gait,  but  he  was  regaining 
his  nerve;  he  had  really  been  more  surprised 
than  hurt.  He  disappeared  without  answering 
my  question,  probably  he  had  not  heard  me. 

"Stretcher-bearers  at  the  double." 

The  cry,  that  call  of  broken  life  which  I  have 
so  often  heard,  faltered  across  the  yard.  From 
somewhere  two  men  rushed  out  carrying  a 
stretcher,  and  hurried  off  in  the  direction  taken 
by  Stoner.  Who  had  been  struck?  Some- 
body had  been  wounded,  maybe  killed!  Was 
it  Mervin? 

Stoner  came  round  the  corner,  a  sad  look  in 
his  brown  eyes. 

"Mervin's  copped  it,"  he  said,  "in  the  head. 


The  Shelling  of  the  Keep       157 

It  must  have  been  that  shell  that  done  it ;  a  splin- 
ter, perhaps." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"He's  gone  away  on  the  stretcher  uncon- 
scious. The  officer  has  been  wounded  as  well 
in  the  leg,  the  neck,  and  the  face." 

"Badly?" 

"No,  he's  able  to  speak." 

Fifteen  minutes  later  I  saw  Mervin  again. 
He  was  lying  on  the  stretcher  and  the  bearers 
were  just  going  off  to  the  dressing  station  with 
it.  He  was  breathing  heavily,  round  his  head 
was  a  white  bandage,  and  his  hands  stretched 
out  stiffly  by  his  sides.  He  was  borne  into  the 
trench  and  carried  round  the  first  traverse.  I 
never  saw  him  again ;  he  died  two  days  later  with- 
out regaining  consciousness. 

On  the  following  day  two  more  men  went: 
one  got  hit  by  a  concussion  shell  that  ripped  his 
stomach  open,  another,  who  was  on  sentry-go 
got  messed  up  in  a  bomb  explosion  that  blew 
half  of  his  side  away.  The  charm  of  the  court- 
yard, with  the  flower-beds  and  floral  designs, 
died  away;  we  were  now  pleased  to  keep  in- 
doors and  allow  the  chairs  outside  to  stand 
idle.  All  day  long  the  enemy  shelled  us,  most 
of  the  shells  dropped  outside  and  played  havoc 


158  The  Red  Horizon 

with  the  church;  but  the  figure  on  the  crucifix 
still  remained,  a  symbol  of  something  great 
and  tragical  overlooking  the  area  of  destruc- 
tion and  death.  Now  and  again  a  shell  dropped 
on  the  flower-beds  and  scattered  splinters  and 
showers  of  earth  against  buildings  and  dug- 
outs. In  the  evening  an  orderly  came  to  the 
Keep. 

"I  want  two  volunteers,"  he  said. 

"For  what?"  I  asked  him. 

"I  don't  know,"  was  the  answer;  "they've  got 
to  report  immediately  to  Headquarters." 

Stoner  and  I  volunteered.  The  Head- 
quarters, a  large  dug-out  roofed  with  many 
sand-bags  piled  high  over  heavy  wooden  beams, 
was  situated  on  the  fringe  of  the  communication 
trench  five  hundred  yards  away  from  the  Keep. 
We  took  up  our  post  in  an  adjacent  dug-out 
and  waited  for  orders.  Over  our  roof  the  Ger- 
man shells  whizzed  incessantly  and  tore  up  the 
brick  path.  Suddenly  we  heard  a  crash,  an 
ear-splitting  explosion  from  the  fire  line. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Stoner.  "Will  it  be  a 
mine  blown  up?" 

"Perhaps  it  is,"  I  ventured.  "I  wish  they'd 
stop  the  shelling;  suppose  one  of  these  shells  hit 
our  dug-out." 


The  Shelling  of  the  Keep       159 

"It  would  be  all  U.P.  with  us,"  said  Stoner, 
trying  to  roll  a  cigarette  and  failing  hopelessly. 
"Confound  it,"  he  said,  "I'm  all  a  bunch  of  nerves ; 
I  didn't  sleep  last  night  and  very  little  the  night 
before." 

His  eyebrows  were  drawn  tight  together 
and  wrinkles  were  forming  between  his  eyes; 
the  old  sparkle  was  almost  entirely  gone  from 
them. 

"Mervin,"  he  said,  "and  the  other  two,  the  bloke 
with  his  side  blown  away.  It's  terrible." 

"Try  and  have  a  sleep,"  I  said;  "nobody  seems 
to  need  us  yet." 

He  lay  down  on  the  empty  sand-bags  which 
littered  the  floor,  and  presently  he  was  asleep. 
I  tried  to  read  Montaigne,  but  could  not,  the 
words  seemed  to  be  running  up  and  down  over 
the  page;  the  firing  seemed  to  have  doubled  in 
intensity,  and  the  shells  swept  low,  almost 
touching  the  roof  of  the  dug-out. 

"Orderly!" 

I  stumbled  out  into  the  open,  and  a  sharp, 
penetrating  rain,  and  made  my  way  to  the 
Headquarters.  The  adjutant  was  inside  at 
the  telephone  speaking  to  the  firing  line. 

"Hello!  that  the  Irish?"  he  said.  "Anything 
to  report  ?  The  mine  has  done  no  damage  ?  No, 


160  The  Red  Horizon 

fifteen  yards  back;  lucky!  Only  three  casualties 
so  far." 

The  adjutant  turned  to  an  orderly  officer: 
"The  mine  exploded  fifteen  yards  in  front; 
three  wounded.  Are  you  the  orderly?"  he 
asked,  turning  to  me. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Find  out  where  the  sergeant-major  is, 
and  ask  him  if  to-morrow's  rations  have  come 
in  yet." 

"Where  is  the  sergeant-major?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  not  sure  where  he  stays,"  said  the 
adjutant.  "Enquire  at  the  Keep." 

The  trench  was  wet  and  slobbery;  every  hole 
was  a  pitfall  to  trap  the  unwary;  boulders  and 
sand-bags  which  had  fallen  in  waited  to  trip  the 
careless  foot.  I  met  a  party  of  soldiers,  a  corporal 
at  their  head. 

"This  the  way  to  the  firing  line  ?"  he  asked. 

"You're  coming  from  it !"  I  told  him. 

"That's  done  it!"  he  muttered.  "We've 
gone  astray ;  there's  some  fun  up  there !" 

"A  mine  blown  up?"  I  asked. 

"  'Twas  a  blow  up,"  was  the  answer.  "It 
almost  deafened  us;  someone  must  have  copped 
it.  What's  the  way  back?" 


The  Shelling  of  the  Keep       161 

"Go  past  Gunner  Siding  and  Marie  Redoubt, 
then  touch  left  and  you'll  get  through." 

"God!  it's  some  rain,"  he  said.     "Ta,  ta." 

"Ta,  ta,  old  man." 

I  turned  into  the  trench  leading  to  the  Keep. 
The  rain  was  pelting  with  a  merciless  vigour, 
and  loose  earth  was  falling  from  the  sides  to  the 
floor  of  the  trench.  A  star-light  flared  up  and 
threw  a  brilliant  light  on  the  entrance  of  the 
Keep  as  I  came  up.  The  place  bristled  with 
brilliant  steel;  half  a  dozen  men  stood  there  with 
fixed  bayonets,  the  water  dripping  from  their  caps 
on  to  their  equipment. 

"Halt!  who  goes  there?"  Pryor  yelled 
out,  raising  his  bayonet  to  the  "on  guard" 
position. 

"A  friend,"  I  replied.  "What's  wrong 
here?" 

"Oh,  it's  Pat,"  Pryor  answered.  "Did  you  not 
hear  it?"  he  continued,  "the  Germans  have  broken 
through  and  there'll  be  fun.  The  whole  Keep 
is  manned  ready." 

"Is  the  pantomime  parapet  manned?"  I 
asked.  I  alluded  to  the  flat  roof  of  the  stable 
in  which  our  Section  slept.  It  had  been 
damaged  by  shell  fire,  and  was  holed  in  several 


162  The  Red  Horizon 

places,  a  sand-bag  parapet  with  loop-holes 
opened  out  on  the  enemy's  front. 

"Kore,  Bill,  Goliath,  they're  all  up  there,"  said 
Pryor,  "and  the  place  is  getting  shelled  too;  in 
the  last  five  minutes  twenty  shells  have  missed 
the  place;  just  missed  it." 

"Where  does  the  sergeant-major  stick?"  I 
asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  not  here  I  think." 

The  courtyard  was  tense  with  excitement. 
Half  a  dozen  new  soldiers  were  called  to  take 
up  posts  on  the  parapet,  and  they  were  rushing 
to  the  crazy  stairs  which  led  to  the  roof.  On 
their  way  they  overturned  a  brazier  and  showers 
of  fine  sparks  rioted  into  the  air.  By  the  flare 
it  was  possible  to  see  the  rain  falling  slanting 
to  the  ground  in  fine  lines  that  glistened  in  the 
flickering  light.  Shells  were  bursting  overhead, 
flashing  out  into  spiteful  red  and  white  stars  of 
flame,  and  hurling  their  bullets  to  the  ground 
beneath.  Shell  splinters  flew  over  the  courtyard 
humming  like  bees  and  seeming  to  fall  every- 
where. What  a  miracle  that  anybody  could  es- 
cape them! 

I  met  our  platoon  sergeant  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs. 

"Where  does  the  sergeant-major  hold  out?" 


The  Shelling  of  the  Keep       163 

"Down  at  Givenchy  somewhere,"  he  told  me. 
"The  Germans  have  broken  through,"  he  said. 
"It  looks  as  if  we're  in  for  a  rough  night." 

"It  will  be  interesting,"  I  replied;  "I  haven't 
seen  a  German  yet." 

Over  the  parapet  a  round  head,  black  amidst 
a  line  of  bayonets  appeared,  and  a  voice  called 
down,  "Sergeant!" 

"Right  oh !"  said  the  sergeant,  and  rushed  up- 
stairs. At  that  moment  a  shell  struck  a  wall  at 
the  back  somewhere,  and  pieces  of  brick  whizzed 
into  the  courtyard  and  clattered  down  the  stair. 
When  the  row  subsided  Kore  was  helped  down, 
his  face  bleeding  and  an  ugly  gash  showing  above 
his  left  eye. 

"Much  hurt,  old  man?"  I  asked. 

"Not  a  blighty,  I'm  afraid,"  he  answered. 

A  "blighty"  is  a  much  desired  wound;  one 
that  sends  a  soldier  back  to  England.  A  man 
with  a  "blighty"  is  a  much  envied  person.  Kore 
was  followed  by  another  fellow  struck  in  the 
leg,  and  drawing  himself  wearily  along.  He  as- 
sured us  that  he  wasn't  hurt  much,  but  now  and 
again  he  groaned  with  pain. 

"Get  into  the  dug-outs,"  the  sergeant  told  them. 
"In  the  morning  you  can  go  to  the  village;  to- 
night it's  too  dangerous." 


164  The  Red  Horizon 

About  midnight  I  went  out  on  the  brick  path- 
way, the  way  we  had  come  up  a  few  nights 
earlier.  I  should  have  taken  Stoner  with  me, 
but  he  slept  and  I  did  not  like  to  waken  him. 
The  enemy's  shells  were  flying  overhead,  one  fol- 
lowing fast  on  another,  all  bursting  in  the  brick 
path  and  the  village.  I  could  see  the  bright  hard 
light  of  shrapnel  shells  exploding  in  the  air,  and 
the  signal  red  flash  of  concussion  shells  bursting 
ahead.  Splinters  flew  back  buzzing  like  angry 
bees  about  my  ears.  I  would  have  given  a  lot 
to  be  back  with  Stoner  in  the  dug-out;  it  was  a 
good  strong  structure,  shrapnel  and  bullet  proof, 
only  a  concussion  shell  falling  on  top  would  work 
him  any  harm. 

The  rain  still  fell  and  the  moon — there  vas  a 
bit  of  it  somewhere — never  showed  itself 
through  the  close-packed  clouds.  For  a  while  I 
struggled  bravely  to  keep  to  the  tight-rope  path, 
but  it  was  useless ;  I  fell  over  first  one  side,  then 
the  other.  Eventually  I  kept  clear  of  it,  and 
walked  in  the  slush  of  the  field.  Half  way  along 
a  newly  dug  trench,  some  three  feet  in  depth, 
ran  across  my  road;  an  attack  was  feared  at 
dawn,  and  a  first  line  of  reserves  were  in  occupa- 
tion. I  stumbled  upon  the  men.  They  were  sit- 
ting well  down,  their  heads  lower  than  the  para- 


The  Shelling  of  the  Keep       165 

pet,  and  all  seemed  to  be  smoking  if  I  could  form 
judgment  by  the  line  of  little  glow-worm  fires, 
the  lighted  cigarette  ends  that  extended  out  on 
either  hand.  Somebody  was  humming  a  music- 
hall  song,  while  two  or  three  of  his  mates  helped 
him  with  the  chorus. 

"Halt!  who  goes  there?" 

The  challenge  was  almost  a  whisper,  and  a 
bayonet  slid  out  from  the  trench  and  paused 
irresolutely  near  my  stomach. 

"A  London  Irish  orderly  going  down  to  the 
village,"  I  answered. 

A  voice  other  than  that  which  challenged  me 
spoke:  "Why  are  you  alone,  there  should  be 
two." 

"I  wasn't  aware  of  that." 

"Pass  on,"  said  the  second  voice,  "and  be  care- 
ful ;  it's  not  altogether  healthy  about  here." 

Somewhere  in  the  proximity  of  the  village  I 
lost  the  brick  path  and  could  not  find  it  again. 
For  a  full  hour  I  wandered  over  the  sodden  fields 
under  shell  fire,  discovering  the  village,  a  bulk  of 
shadows  thinning  into  a  jagged  line  of  chimneys 
against  the  black  sky  when  the  shells  exploded, 
and  losing  it  again  when  the  darkness  settled 
down  around  me.  Eventually  I  stumbled  across 
the  road  and  breathed  freely  for  a  second. 


166  The  Red  Horizon 

But  the  enemy's  fire  would  not  allow  me  a  very 
long  breathing  space;  it  seemed  bent  on  battering 
the  village  to  pieces.  In  front  of  me  ran  a 
broken-down  wall,  behind  it  were  a  number  of 
houses  and  not  a  light  showing.  The  road  was 
deserted. 

A  shell  exploded  in  mid-air  straight  above, 
and  bullets  sang  down  and  shot  into  the  ground 
round  me.  Following  it  came  the  casing 
splinters  humming  like  bees,  then  a  second 
explosion,  the  whizzing  bullets  and  the  bees, 
another  explosion.  .  .  . 

"Come  along  and  get  out  of  it,"  I  whispered 
to  myself,  and  looked  along  the  road;  a  little 
distance  off  I  fancied  I  saw  a  block  of  buildings. 

"Run!" 

I  ran,  "stampeded!"  is  a  better  word,  and 
presently  found  myself  opposite  an  open  door. 
I  flung  myself  in,  tripped,  and  went  prostrate 
to  the  floor. 

Boom!  I  almost  chuckled,  thinking  myself 
secure  from  the  shells  that  burst  overhead. 
It  was  only  when  the  bees  bounced  on  the  floor 
that  I  looked  up  to  discover  that  the  house  was 
roofless. 

I  made  certain  that  the  next  building  had  a 
roof  before  I  entered.  It  also  had  a  door ;  this  I 


The  Shelling  of  the  Keep       167 

shoved  open  and  found  myself  amongst  a  num- 
ber of  horses  and  warm  penetrating  odour  of 
dung. 

"Now,  3008,  you  may  smoke,"  I  said,  address- 
ing myself,  and  drew  out  my  cigarette  case.  My 
matches  were  quite  dry;  I  lit  one  and  was  just 
putting  it  to  my  cigarette  when  one  of  the  horses 
began  prancing  at  the  other  end  of  the  building. 
I  just  had  a  view  of  the  animal  coming  towards 
me  when  the  match  went  out  and  left  me  in  the 
total  darkness.  I  did  not  like  the  look  of  the 
horse,  and  I  wished  that  it  had  been  better  bound 
when  its  master  left  it.  It  was  coming  nearer 
and  now  pawing  the  floor  with  its  hoof.  I  edged 
closer  to  the  door;  if  it  were  not  for  the  shells  I 
would  go  outside.  Why  was  that  horse  allowed 
to  remain  loose  in  the  stable?  I  tried  to  light 
another  match,  but  it  snapped  in  my  fingers.  The 
horse  was  very  near  me  now;  I  could  feel  its 
presence ;  it  made  no  noise ;  it  seemed  to  be  shod 
with  velvet.  The  moment  was  tense ;  I  shouted : 
"Whoa  there,  whoa !" 

It  shot  out  its  hind  legs  and  a  pair  of  hoofs 
clattered  on  the  wall  beside  me. 

"Whoa,  there!  whoa  there!  confound  you!" 
I  growled,  and  was  outside  in  a  twinkling  and 
into  the  arms  of  a  transport  sergeant. 


168  The  Red  Horizon 

"What  the  devil — 'oo  are  yer?"  he  blurted 
out. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  a  shell?"  I  couldn't  help 
asking.  "I'm  sorry,"  I  continued;  "I  came  in 
here  out  of  that  beastly  shelling." 

"Very  wise,"  said  the  sergeant,  getting  quickly 
into  the  stable. 

"One  of  your  horses  is  loose,"  I  said.  "Do 
you  know  where  the  London  Irish  is  put  up 
here?" 

"Down  the  road  on  the  right,"  he  told  me; 
"you  come  to  a  large  gate  there  on  the  left  and 
you  cross  a  garden.  It's  a  big  buildin'." 

"Thank  you.    Good  night." 

"Good  night,  sonny." 

I  went  in  by  the  wrong  gate;  there  were  so 
many  on  the  left,  and  found  myself  in  a  dark 
spinney  where  the  rain  was  dripping  heavily 
from  the  branches  of  the  trees.  I  was  just  on 
the  point  of  turning  back  to  the  road  when  one 
of  our  batteries  concealed  in  the  place  opened  fire, 
and  a  perfect  hell  of  flame  burst  out  around  me. 
I  flopped  to  earth  with  graceless  precipitancy,  and 
wallowed  in  mud.  "It's  all  up,  3008,  you've 
done  it  now,"  I  muttered,  and  wondered  vaguely 
whether  I  was  partly  or  wholly  dead.  The  sharp 


The  Shelling  of  the  Keep       169 

smell  of  cordite  filled  the  air  and  caused  a  tickling 
sensation  in  my  throat  that  almost  choked  me. 
When  I  scrambled  to  my  feet  again  and  found 
myself  uninjured,  a  strange  dexterity  had  entered 
my  legs ;  I  was  outside  the  gate  in  the  space  of  a 
second. 

Ten  minutes  later  I  found  the  sergeant-major, 
who  rose  from  a  blanket  on  the  ground-floor  of 
a  pretentious  villa  with  a  shell  splintered  door, 
rubbing  the  sleep  from  his  eyes.  The  rations  had 
not  arrived ;  they  would  probably  be  in  by  dawn. 
Had  I  seen  the  mine  explode?  I  belonged  to 
the  company  holding  the  Keep,  did  I  not?  The 
rumour  about  the  Germans  breaking  through 
was  a  cock-and-bull  story.  Had  I  any  cigarettes  ? 
Turkish!  Not  bad  for  a  change.  Good  luck, 
sonny !  Take  care  of  yourself  going  back. 

I  came  in  line  with  the  rear  trench  on  my  way 
back. 

"Who's  there?"  came  a  voice  from  the  line  of 
little  cigarette  lights. 

"A  London  Irish  orderly — going  home!"  I 
answered,  and  a  laugh  rewarded  my  ironical 
humour. 

"Jolly  luck  to  be  able  to  return  home,"  I  said 
to  myself  when  I  got  past.  "3008,  you  weren't 


170  The  Red  Horizon 

very  brave  to-night.  By  Jove,  you  did  hop  into 
that  roofless  house  and  scamper  out  of  that  spin- 
ney! In  fact,  you  did  not  shine  as  a  soldier  at 
all.  You've  not  been  particularly  afraid  of  shell 
fire  before,  but  to-night!  Was  it  because  you 
were  alone  you  felt  so  very  frightened?  You've 
found  out  you've  been  posing  a  little  before. 
Alone  you're  really  a  coward." 

I  felt  a  strange  delight  in  saying  these  things ; 
the  firing  had  ceased;  it  was  still  raining 
heavily. 

"Remember  the  bridge  at  Suicide  Corner," 
I  said,  alluding  to  a  recent  incident  when  I  had 
walked  upright  across  a  bridge,  exposed  to  the 
enemy's  rifle  fire.  My  mates  hurried  across 
almost  bent  double  whilst  I  sauntered  slowly 
over  in  front  of  them.  "You  had  somebody 
to  look  at  you  then ;  'twas  vanity  that  did  it,  but 
to-night!  You  were  afraid,  terribly  funky.  If 
there  had  been  somebody  to  look  on,  you'd  have 
been  defiantly  careless.  It's  rather  nerve-racking 
to  be  shelled  when  you're  out  alone  at  midnight 
and  nobody  looking  at  you!" 

Dawn  was  breaking  when  I  found  myself  at 
the  Keep.  The  place  in  some  manner  fascinated 
me  and  I  wanted  to  know  what  had  happened 


The  Shelling  of  the  Keep       171 

there.  I  found  that  a  few  shells  were  still 
coming  that  way  and  most  of  the  party  were  in 
their  dug-outs.  I  peered  down  the  one  which 
was  under  my  old  sleeping  place;  at  present  all 
stayed  in  their  dug-outs  when  off  duty.  They 
were  ordered  to  do  so,  but  none  of  the  party 
were  sleeping  now,  the  night  had  been  too 
exciting. 

"  'Go's  there?"  Bill  called  up  out  of  the  dark- 
ness, and  when  I  spoke  he  muttered : 

"Oh,  it's  ole  Pat !    Where  were  yer  ?" 

"I've  been  out  for  a  walk,"  I  replied. 

"When  that  shellin'  was  goin'  on?" 

"Yes." 

"You're  a  cool  beggar,  you  are !"  said  Bill.  "I 
was  warm  here  I  tell  yer !" 

"Have  the  Germans  come  this  way?"  I 
asked. 

"Germans!"  ejaculated  Bill.  "They  come 
'ere  and  me  with  ten  rounds  in  the  magazine  and 
one  in  the  breech !  They  knows  better !" 

Stoner  was  awake  when  I  returned  to  the  dug- 
out by  Headquarters. 

"Up  already?"  I  asked. 

"Up!  I've  been  up  almost  since  you  went 
away,"  he  answered.  "My!  the  shells  didn't 


172  The  Red  Horizon 

half  fly  over  here.     And  I  thought  you'd  never 
get  back." 

"That's  due  to  lack  of  imagination,"  I  told  him. 
"What's  for  breakfast?" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A   NIGHT   OF   HORROR 

'Tis  only  a  dream  in  the  trenches, 
Told  when  the  shadows  creep, 
Over  the  friendly  sandbags 
When  men  in  the  dug-outs  sleep. 
This  is  the  tale  of  the  trenches 
Told  when  the  shadows  fall, 
By  little  Hughie  of  Dooran, 
Over  from  Donegal. 

ON  the  noon  following  the  journey  to  the 
village  I  was  sent  back  to  the  Keep; 
that  night  our  company  went  into  the 
firing  trench  again.  We  were  all  pleased  to  get 
there;  any  place  was  preferable  to  the  block  of 
buildings  in  which  we  had  lost  so  many  of  our 
boys.  On  the  night  after  our  departure,  two 
Engineers  who  were  working  at  the  Keep  could 
not  find  sleeping  place  in  the  dug-outs,  and  they 
slept  on  the  spot  where  I  made  my  bed  the  first 
night  I  was  there.  In  the  early  morning  a  shell 
struck  the  wall  behind  them  and  the  poor  fellows 
were  blown  to  atoms. 

For  three  days  we  stayed  in  the  trenches,  nar- 
173 


174  The  Red  Horizon 

row,  suffocating  and  damp  places,  where  parados 
and  parapet  almost  touched  and  where  it  was 
well-nigh  impossible  for  two  men  to  pass.  Food 
was  not  plentiful  here;  all  the  time  we  lived  on 
bully  beef  and  biscuits;  our  tea  ran  short  and 
on  the  second  day  we  had  to  drink  water  at  our 
meals.  From  our  banquette  it  was  almost  im- 
possible to  see  the  enemy's  position ;  the  growing 
grass  well  nigh  hid  their  lines;  occasionally  by 
standing  tiptoed  on  the  banquette  we  could  catch 
a  glimpse  of  white  sandbags  looking  for  all  the 
world  like  linen  spread  out  to  dry  on  the  grass. 
But  the  Germans  did  not  forget  that  wre  were 
near ;  pip-squeaks,  rifle  grenades,  bombs  and  bul- 
lets came  our  way  with  aggravating  persistence. 
It  was  believed  that  the  Prussians,  spiteful  beg- 
gars that  they  are,  occupied  the  position  opposite. 
In  these  trenches  the  dug-outs  were  few  and  far 
between ;  we  slept  very  little. 

On  the  second  night  I  was  standing  sentry 
on  the  banquette.  My  watch  extended  from 
twelve  to  one,  the  hour  when  the  air  is  raw  and 
the  smell  of  the  battle  line  is  penetrating.  The 
night  was  pitch  black;  in  ponds  and  stagnant 
streams  in  the  vicinity  frogs  were  chuckling. 
Their  hoarse  clucking  could  be  heard  all  round; 
when  the  star-shells  flew  up  I  could  catch  vague 


A  Night  of  Horror  175 

glimpses  of  the  enemy's  sandbags  and  the  line  of 
tall  shrapnel-swept  trees  which  ran  in  front  of 
his  trenches.  The  sleep  was  heavy  in  my  eyes; 
time  and  again  I  dozed  off  for  a  second  only 
to  wake  up  as  a  shell  burst  in  front  or  swept  by 
my  head.  It  seemed  impossible  to  remain  awake ; 
often  I  jumped  down  to  the  floor  of  the  trench, 
raced  along  for  a  few  yards,  then  back  to  the 
banquette  and  up  to  the  post  beside  my  bayonet. 

One  moment  of  quiet  and  I  dropped  into  a 
light  sleep.  I  punched  my  hands  against  the 
sandbags  until  they  bled;  the  whizz  of  the 
shells  passed  like  ghosts  above  me;  slumber 
sought  me  and  strove  to  hold  me  captive.  I 
had  dreams;  a  village  standing  on  a  hill  behind 
the  opposite  trench  became  peopled;  it  was 
summer  and  the  work  of  haying  and  harvesting 
went  on.  The  men  went  out  to  the  meadows 
with  long-handled  scythes  and  mowed  the  grass 
down  in  great  swathes.  I  walked  along  a  lane 
leading  to  the  field  and  stopped  at  the  stile  and 
looked  in.  A  tall  youth  who  seemed  strangely 
familiar  was  mowing.  The  sweat  streamed 
down  his  face  and  bare  chest.  His  shirt  was 
folded  neatly  back  and  his  sleeves  were  thrust 
up  almost  to  the  shoulders. 

The   work   did   not   come   easy   to   him;  he 


176  The  Red  Horizon 

always  followed  the  first  sweep  of  the  scythe 
with  a  second  which  cropped  the  grass  very 
close  to  the  ground.  For  an  expert  mower 
the  second  stroke  is  unnecessary;  the  youngster 
had  not  learned  to  put  a  keen  edge  on  the  blade. 
I  wanted  to  explain  to  him  the  best  way  to 
use  the  sharping  stone,  but  I  felt  powerless  to 
move:  I  could  only  remain  at  the  stile  looking 
on.  Sometimes  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  in 
my  direction,  but  took  no  notice  of  me.  Who 
was  he?  Where  had  I  seen  him  before?  I 
called  out  to  him  but  he  took  no  notice.  I  tried 
to  change  my  position,  succeeded  and  crossed 
the  stile.  When  I  came  close  to  him,  he  spoke. 

"You  were  long  in  coming,"  he  said,  and  I 
saw  it  was  my  brother,  a  youngster  of  eighteen. 

"I  went  to  the  well  for  a  jug  of  water,"  I  said. 
"But  it's  day  now  and  the  three  trout  are  dead 
at  the  bottom." 

"  'Twas  because  we  didn't  put  a  cross  of 
green  rushes  over  it  last  Candlemas  Eve,"  he 
remarked.  "You  should  have  made  one  then, 
but  you  didn't.  Can  you  put  an  edge  on  the 
scythe?"  he  asked. 

"I  used  to  be  able  before — before  the "  I 

stopped,  feeling  that  I  had  forgotten  some  event. 


A  Night  of  Horror  177 

"I  don't  know  why,  but  I  feel  strange,"  I  said. 
"When  did  you  come  to  this  village  ?" 

"Village?" 

"That  one  up  there."  I  looked  in  the  direc- 
tion where  the  village  stood  a  moment  before, 
but  every  red-brick  house  with  its  roof  of  terra- 
cotta tiles  had  vanished.  I  was  gazing  along 
my  own  glen  in  Donegal  with  its  quiet  fields, 
its  sunny  braes,  steep  hills  and  white  lime- 
washed  cottages,  snug  under  their  neat  layers  of 
straw. 

The  white  road  ran,  almost  parallel  with  the 
sparkling  river,  through  a  wealth  of  emerald 
green  bottom  lands.  How  came  I  to  be  here? 
I  turned  to  my  brother  to  ask  him  something, 
but  I  could  not  speak. 

A  funeral  came  along  the  road;  four  men 
carried  a  black  coffin  shoulder  high;  they 
seemed  to  be  in  great  difficulties  with  their 
burden.  They  stumbled  and  almost  fell  at  every 
step.  A  man  carrying  his  coat  and  hat  in  one 
hand  walked  in  front,  and  he  seemed  to  be  exhort- 
ing those  who  followed  to  quicken  their  pace. 
I  sympathised  with  the  man  in  front.  Why  did 
the  men  under  the  coffin  walk  so  slowly  ?  It  was 
a  ridiculous  way  to  carry  a  coffin,  on  the  shoul- 
ders. Why  did  they  not  use  a  stretcher?  It 


178  The  Red  Horizon 

would  be  the  proper  thing  to  do.  I  turned  to  my 
brother. 

"They  should  have  stretchers,"  I  told  him. 

"Stretchers?" 

"And  stretcher-bearers." 

"Stretcher-bearers  at  the  double !"  he  snapped, 
and  vanished.  I  flashed  back  into  reality  again  ; 
the  sentinel  on  the  left  was  leaning  towards  me; 
I  could  see  his  face,  white  under  the  Balaclava 
helmet.  There  was  impatience  in  his  voice  when 
he  spoke. 

"Do  you  hear  the  message  ?"  he  called. 

"Right!"  I  answered  and  leant  towards  the 
man  on  my  right.  I  could  see  his  dark,  round 
head,  dimly  outlined  above  the  parapet. 

"Stretcher  bearers  at  the  double!"  I  called. 
"Pass  it  along." 

From  mouth  to  mouth  it  went  along  the 
living  wire;  that  ominous  call  which  tells  of 
broken  life  and  the  tragedy  of  war.  Nothing 
is  so  poignant  in  the  watches  of  the  night  as 
the  call  for  stretcher-bearers;  there  is  a  thrill 
in  the  message  swept  from  sentinel  to  sentinel 
along  the  line  of  sandbags,  telling  as  it  does, 
of  some  poor  soul  stricken  down  writhing  in 
agony  on  the  floor  of  the  trenches. 

For    a    moment    I    remained    awake;    then 


A  Night  of  Horror  179 

phantoms  rioted  before  my  eyes;  the  trees 
out  by  the  German  lines  became  ghouls.  They 
held  their  heads  together  in  consultation  and  I 
knew  they  were  plotting  some  evil  towards  me. 
What  were  they  going  to  do?  They  moved, 
long,  gaunt,  crooked  figures  dressed  in  black, 
and  approached  me.  I  felt  frightened  but  my 
fright  was  mixed  with  curiosity.  Would  they 
speak?  What  would  they  say?  I  knew  I 
had  wronged  them  in  some  way  or  another ;  when 
and  how  I  did  not  remember.  They  came  near. 
I  could  see  they  wore  black  masks  over  their 
faces  and  their  figures  grew  in  size,  almost  reach- 
ing the  stars.  And  as  they  grew,  their  width 
diminished;  they  became  mere  strands  reaching 
from  earth  to  heaven.  I  rubbed  my  eyes,  to  find 
myself  gazing  at  the  long,  fine  grasses  that  grew 
up  from  the  reverse  slope  of  the  parapet. 

I  leant  back  from  the  banquette  across  the 
narrow  trench  and  rested  my  head  on  the  para- 
dos. I  could  just  rest  for  a  moment,  one  moment, 
then  get  up  again.  The  ghouls  took  shape  far  out 
in  front  now,  and  careered  along  the  top  of  the 
German  trench,  great  gaunt  shadows  that  raced 
as  if  pursued  by  a  violent  wind.  Why  did  they 
run  so  quickly?  Were  they  afraid  of  something? 
They  ran  in  such  a  ridiculous  way  that  I  could 


i8o  The  Red  Horizon 

not  help  laughing.  They  were  making  way,  that 
was  it.  They  had  to  make  way.  Why? 

"Make  way!" 

Two  stretcher-bearers  stood  on  my  right; 
in  front  of  them  a  sergeant. 

"Make  way;  you're  asleep,"  he  said. 

"I'm  not,"  I  replied,  coming  to  an  erect 
position. 

"Well,  you  shouldn't  remain  like  that,  if  you 
don't  want  to  get  your  head  blown  off." 

My  next  sentry  hour  began  at  nine  in  the 
morning;  I  was  standing  on  the  banquette  when 
I  heard  Bill  speaking.  He  was  just  returning 
with  a  jar  of  water  drawn  from  a  pump  at  the 
rear,  and  he  stopped  for  a  moment  in  front  of 
Spud  Higgles,  one  of  No.  4's  boys. 

"Mornin'!  How's  yer  hoppin'  it?"  said 
Spud. 

"Top  over  toe!"  answered  Bill.  "  'Ow's 
you?" 

"Up  to  the  pink.     Any  news?" 

"Yer'aven't'eardit?" 

"What?" 

"The  Brigadier's  copped  it  this  mornin'." 

"Oo?" 

"Our  Brigadier." 

"Git!" 


A  Night  of  Horror  181 

"'$  truth!" 

"Strike  me  pink!"  said  Spud.    "  'Ow?" 

"A  stray  bullet." 

"Stone  me  ginger!  but  one  would  say  he'd  a 
safe  job." 

"The  bullet  'ad  'is  number!" 

"So,  he's  gone  west!" 

"He's  gone  west!" 

Bill's  information  was  quite  true.  Our 
Brigadier  while  making  a  tour  of  inspection  of 
the  trenches  turned  to  the  orderly  officer  and 
said:  "I  believe  I  am  hit,  here."  He  put  his 
hand  on  his  left  knee. 

His  trousers  were  cut  away  but  no  wound 
was  visible.  An  examination  was  made  on 
his  body  and  a  little  clot  of  blood  was  found  over 
the  groin  on  the  right.  A  bullet  had  entered 
there  and  remained  in  the  body.  Twenty  minutes 
later  the  Brigadier  was  dead. 

Rations  were  short  for  breakfast,  dinner  did 
not  arrive,  we  had  no  tea,  but  all  the  men  were 
quite  cheerful,  for  it  was  rumoured  that  we 
were  going  back  to  our  billets  at  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon.  About  that  hour  we  were  re- 
lieved by  another  battalion  and  we  marched  back 
through  the  communication  trench,  past  Marie 
Redoubt,  Gunner  Siding,  the  Keep,  and  into  a 


1 82  The  Red  Horizon 

trench  that  circled  along  the  top  of  the  Brick 
Path.  This  was  not  the  way  out;  why  had  we 
come  here?  had  the  officer  in  front  taken  the 
wrong  turning?  At  our  billet  there  was  such  a 
musty  old  barn  with  straw  littered  on  the  floor 
and  such  a  quaint  old  farmhouse  where  they  sold 
newly  laid  eggs,  fresh  butter,  fried  potatoes, 
and  delightful  salad!  We  loved  the  place,  the 
sleepy  barges  that  glided  along  the  canal  where 
we  loved  to  bathe,  the  children  at  play ;  the  orange 
girls  who  sold  fruit  from  large  wicker  baskets 
and  begged  our  tunic  buttons  and  hat-badges  for 
souvenirs.  We  wanted  so  much  to  go  back  that 
evening!  Why  had  they  kept  us  waiting? 

"  'Eard  that?"  Bill  said  to  me.  "Two  London 
battalions  are  goin'  to  charge  to-night.  They're 
passing  up  the  trench  and  we're  in  'ere  to  let 
them  get  by." 

"About  turn!" 

We  stumbled  back  again  into  the  communica- 
tion trench  and  turned  to  the  left;  to  go  out  we 
should  have  gone  to  the  right.  What  was  hap- 
pening ?  Were  we  going  back  again  ?  No  dinner, 
no  tea,  no  rations  and  sleepless  nights.  .  .  .  The 
barn  at  our  billet  with  the  cobwebs  on  the  rafters 
.  .  .  the  salad  and  soup.  .  .  .  We  weren't  going 
out  that  night. 


A  Night  of  Horror  183 

We  halted  in  a  deep,  narrow  trench  between 
Gunner  Siding  and  Marie  Redoubt,  two  hundred 
yards  back  from  the  firing  trench.  Our  officer 
read  out  orders. 

"The Brigade  is  going  to  make  an  attack 

on  the  enemy's  position  at  6.30  this  evening.  Our 
battalion  is  to  take  part  in  the  attack  by  support- 
ing with  rifle  fire." 

Two  of  our  companies  were  in  the  firing  line; 
one  was  in  support  and  we  were  reserves;  we 
had  to  remain  in  the  trench  packed  up  like  her- 
rings, and  await  further  instructions.  The  enemy 
knew  the  communication  trench ;  they  had  got  the 
range  months  before  and  at  one  time  the  trench 
was  occupied  by  them. 

We  got  into  the  trench  at  the  time  when  the 
attack  took  place ;  our  artillery  was  now  silent  and 
rapid  rifle  fire  went  on  in  front;  a  life  and  death 
struggle  was  in  progress  there.  In  our  trench 
it  was  very  quiet;  we  were  packed  tight  as  the 
queue  at  the  gallery  door  of  a  cheap  music-hall 
on  a  Saturday  night. 

"Blimey,  a  balmy  this !"  said  Bill,  making  fran- 
tic efforts  to  squash  my  toes  in  his  desire  to  find 
a  fair  resting  place  for  his  feet.  "I'm  'ungry. 
Call  this  the  best  fed  army  in  the  world.  Dog 
and  maggot  all  the  bloomin'  time.  I  need  all  the 


184  The  Red  Horizon 

hemery  paper  given  to  clean  my  bayonet,  to 
sharpen  my  teeth  to  eat  the  stuff.  How  are  we 
goin'  to  sleep  this  night,  Pat?" 

"Standing." 

"Like  a  blurry  'oss.  But  Stoner's  all  right," 
said  Bill.  Stoner  was  all  right;  somebody  had 
dug  a  little  burrow  at  the  base  of  the  traverse 
and  he  was  lying  there  already  asleep. 

We  stood  in  the  trench  till  eight  o'clock 
almost  suffocated.  It  was  impossible  for  the 
company  to  spread  out,  on  the  right  we  were 
touching  the  supports,  on  the  left  was  a  com- 
munication trench  leading  to  the  point  of  attack, 
and  this  was  occupied  by  part  of  another  bat- 
talion. We  were  hemmed  in  on  all  sides,  a  com- 
pressed company  in  full  marching  order  with 
many  extra  rounds  of  ammunition  and  empty 
stomachs. 

I  was  telling  a  story  to  the  boys,  one  that 
Pryor  and  Goliath  gave  credence  to,  but  which 
the  others  refused  to  believe.  It  was  a  tale  of 
two  trench-mortars,  squat  little  things  that  loiter 
about  the  firing  line  and  look  for  all  the  world 
like  toads  ready  to  hop  off.  I  came  on  two  of 
these  the  night  before,  crept  on  them  unawares 
and  found  them  speaking  to  one  another. 


A  Night  of  Horror  185 

"Nark  it,  Pat,"  muttered  Bill  lighting  a  cigar- 
ette. "Them  talking.  Git  out!" 

"Of  course  you  don't  understand,"  I  said. 
"The  trench-mortar  has  a  soul,  a  mind  and 
great  discrimination,"  I  told  him. 

"What's  a  bomb?"  asked  Bill. 

"  'Tis  the  soul  finding  expression.  Last  night 
they  were  speaking,  as  I  have  said.  They  had 
a  wonderful  plan  in  hand.  They  decided  to 
steal  away  and  drink  a  bottle  of  wine  in 
Givenchy." 

"Blimey!" 

"They  did  not  know  the  way  out  and  at  that 
moment  up  comes  Wee  Hughie  Gallagher  of 
Dooran;  in  his  sea-green  bonnet,  his  salmon 
pink  coat,  and  buff  tint  breeches  and  silver 
shoon  and  mounted  one  of  the  howitzers  and  off 
they  went  as  fast  as  the  wind  to  the  wineshop  at 
Givenchy." 

"'Go's  'Ughie  what  d'ye  call  'im  of  that 
place?" 

"He  used  to  be  a  goat-herd  in  Donegal  once 
upon  a  time  when  cows  were  kine  and  eagles  of 
the  air  built  their  nests  in  the  beards  of  giants." 

"Wot!" 

"I  often  met  him  there,  going  out  to  the  pas- 


1 86  The  Red  Horizon 

tures,  with  a  herd  of  goats  before  him  and  a  herd 
of  goats  behind  him  and  a  salmon  tied  to  the 
laces  of  his  brogues  for  supper." 

"I  wish  we  'ad  somethin'  for  supper,"  said 
Bill. 

"Hold  your  tongue.  He  has  lived  for  many 
thousands  of  years,  has  Wee  Hughie  Gallagher 
of  Dooran,"  I  said,  "but  he  hasn't  reached  the 
first  year  of  his  old  age  yet.  Long  ago  when 
there  were  kings  galore  in  Ireland,  he  went  out 
to  push  his  fortune  about  the  season  of  Michael- 
mas and  the  harvest  moon.  He  came  to  Tirnan- 
Oge,  the  land  of  Perpetual  Youth  which  is  flowing 
with  milk  and  honey." 

"I  wish  this  trench  was!" 

"Bill!" 

"But  you're  balmy,  chum,"  said  the  Cockney; 
"  'owitzers  talkin'  and  then  this  feller.  Ye're 
pullin'  my  leg." 

"I'm  afraid  you're  not  intellectual  enough 
to  understand  the  psychology  of  a  trench- 
howitzer  or  the  temperament  of  Wee  Hughie 
Gallagher  of  Dooran,  Bill." 

"'Ad  'e  a  finance?"* 

"A  what?"  I  asked. 

"Wot  Goliath  'as,  a  girl  at  home." 

*  Fiancee. 


A  Night  of  Horror  187 

"That's  it,  is  it?  Why  do  you  think  of  such  a 
thing?" 

"I  was  trying  to  write  a  letter  to-day  to  St. 
Albans,"  said  Bill,  and  his  voice  became  low  and 
confidential.  "But  you're  no  mate,"  he  added. 
"You  were  goin'  to  make  some  poetry  and  I 
haven't  got  it  yet." 

"Whai  kind  of  poetry  do  you  want  me  to 
make?"  I  l^sked. 

"Yer  knolsr  it  yerself ,  somethin'  nice  like !" 

"About  the  stars — " 

"Star-shells  if  you  like." 

"Shall  I  begin  now?  We  can  write  it  out 
later." 

"Righto!" 

I  plunged  into  impromptu  verse. 

I  lie  as  still  as  a  sandbag  in  my  dug-out  shrapnel  proof, 
My  candle  shines  in  the  corner,  and  the  shadows  dance  on 

the  roof, 
Far  from  the  blood-stained  trenches,  and  far  from  the  scenes 

of  war, 
My  thoughts  go  back  to  a  maiden,  my  own  little  guiding  star. 

"That's  'ot  stuff,"  said  Bill. 

I  was  on  the  point  of  starting  a  fresh  verse 
when  the  low  rumble  of  an  approaching  shell  was 
heard ;  a  messenger  of  death  from  a  great  German 


i88  The  Red  Horizon 

gun  out  at  La  Bassee.  This  gun  was  no  stranger 
to  us;  he  often  played  havoc  with  the  Keep;  it 
was  he  who  blew  in  the  wall  a  few  nights  before 
and  killed  the  two  Engineers.  The  missile  he 
flung  moved  slowly  and  could  not  keep  pace  with 
its  own  sound.  Five  seconds  before  it  arrived 
we  could  hear  it  coming,  a  slow,  certain  horror, 
sure  of  its  mission  and  steady  to  its  purpose.  The 
big  gun  at  La  Bassee  was  shelling  the  communica- 
tion trench,  endeavouring  to  stop  reinforcements 
from  getting  up  to  the  firing  lines  and  the  red 
field  between. 

The  shell  burst  about  fifty  yards  away  and 
threw  a  shower  of  dirt  over  us.  There  was  a 
precipitate  flop,  a  falling  backwards  and  forwards 
and  all  became  messed  up  in  an  intricate  jumble 
of  flesh,  equipment,  clothing  and  rifles  in  the 
bottom  of  the  trench.  A  swarm  of  "bees"  buzzed 
overhead,  a  few  dropped  into  the  trench  and 
Pryor,  who  gripped  one  with  his  hand,  swore 
under  his  breath.  The  splinter  was  almost  red- 
hot. 

The  trench  was  voluble. 

"I'm  chokin' ;  get  off  me  tummy." 

"Your  boot's  on  my  face." 

"Nobody  struck?" 

"Nobody." 


A  Night  of  Horror  189 

"Gawd!  I  hope  they  don't  send  many  packets 
like  that." 

"Spread  out  a  little  to  the  left,"  came  the  order 
from  an  officer.  "When  you  hear  a  shell  coming 
lie  flat." 

We  got  to  our  feet,  all  except  Stoner,  who  was 
still  asleep  in  his  lair,  and  changed  our  positions, 
our  ears  alert  for  the  arrival  of  the  next  shell. 
The  last  bee  had  scarcely  ceased  to  buzz  when  we 
heard  the  second  projectile  coming. 

"Another  couple  of  steps.  Hurry  up.  Down." 
Again  we  threw  ourselves  in  a  heap;  the  shell 
burst,  and  again  we  were  covered  with  dust  and 
muck. 

"Move  on  a  bit.  Quicker!  The  next  will 
be  here  in  a  minute,"  was  the  cry,  and  we  stumbled 
along  the  narrow  alley  hurriedly  as  if  our  very 
lives  depended  on  the  quickness.  When  we  came 
to  a  halt  there  was  only  a  space  of  two  feet 
between  each  man.  The  trench  was  just  wide 
enough  for  the  body  of  one,  and  all  set  about 
to  sort  themselves  in  the  best  possible  manner. 
A  dozen  shells  now  came  our  way  in  rapid  suc- 
cession. Some  of  the  men  went  down  on  their 
knees  and  pressed  their  faces  close  to  the  ground 
like  Moslems  at  prayer.  They  looked  for  all  the 
world  like  a  row  of  Z's  tilted  wrongly  somewhat 


190  The  Red  Horizon 

in  this  manner — N  N  N  N.  The  posture  re- 
minded me  of  stories  told  of  ostriches,  birds  I 
have  never  seen,  who  bury  their  heads  in  the  sand 
and  consider  themselves  free  from  danger  when 
the  world  is  hidden  from  their  eyes. 

Safety  in  that  style  did  not  appeal  to  me;  I 
sat  on  the  bottom  of  the  trench,  head  erect. 
If  a  splinter  struck  me  it  would  wound  me  in 
the  shoulders  or  the  arms  or  knees.  I  bent  low 
so  that  I  might  protect  my  stomach;  I  had  seen 
men  struck  in  that  part  of  the  body,  the  wounds 
were  ghastly  and  led  to  torturing  deaths.  When 
a  shell  came  near,  I  put  the  balls  of  my  hands 
over  my  eyes,  spread  my  palms  outwards  and 
covered  my  ears  with  the  fingers.  This  was  some 
precaution  against  blindness  and  deadened  the 
sound  of  explosion.  Bill  for  a  moment  was  un- 
moved; he  stood  upright  in  a  niche  in  the  wall 
and  made  jokes. 

"If  I  kick  the  bucket,"  he  said,  "don't  put  a 
cross  with  '  'E  died  for  'is  King  and  Country' 
over  me.  A  bully  beef  tin  at  my  'ead  will  do,  and 
on  it  scrawled  in  chalk,  '  'E  died  doin'  fatigues  on 
an  empty  stomach.' ' 

"A  cig.,"  he  called,  "  'oo  'as  a  cig.,  a  fag,  a 
dottle?  If  yer  can't  give  me  a  fag,  light  one  and 
let  me  look  at  it  burnin'.  Give  Tommy  a  fag  an' 


A  Night  of  Horror  191 

'e  doesn't  care  wot  'appens.  That  was  in  the 
papers.  Blimey !  it  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  dummy 
teat.  Give  it  to  the  pore  man's  pianner.  .  .  ." 

"The  what!" 

"The  squalling  kid,  and  tell  the  brat  to  be 
quiet,  just  like  they  tell  Tommy  to  'old  'is 
tongue  when  they  give  'im  a  cig.  Oh,  Blimey !" 

A  shell  burst  and  a  dozen  splinters  whizzed 
past  Bill's  ears.  He  was  down  immediately,  an- 
other tilted  Z  on  the  floor  of  the  trench.  In  front 
of  me  Pryor  sat,  his  head  bent  low,  moving  only 
when  a  shell  came  near,  to  raise  his  hands  and 
cover  his  eyes.  The  high  explosive  shells  boomed 
slowly  in  from  every  quarter  now,  and  burst  all 
round  us.  Would  they  fall  into  the  trench?  If 
they  did !  The  La  Bassee  monster,  the  irresistible 
giant,  so  confident  of  its  strength,  was  only  one 
amongst  the  many.  We  sank  down,  each  in  his 
own  way,  closer  to  the  floor  of  the  trench.  We 
were  preparing  to  be  wounded  in  the  easiest  pos- 
sible way.  True  we  might  get  killed ;  lucky  if  we 
escaped!  Would  any  of  us  see  the  dawn?  .  .  . 

One  is  never  aware  of  the  shrapnel  shell 
until  it  bursts.  They  had  been  passing  over  our 
heads  for  a  long  time,  making  a  sound  like  the 
wind  in  telegraph  wires,  before  one  burst  above 
us.  There  was  a  flash  and  I  felt  the  heat  of  the 


192  The  Red  Horizon 

explosion  on  my  face.  For  a  moment  I  was  dazed, 
then  I  vaguely  wondered  where  I  had  been 
wounded.  My  nerves  were  on  edge  and  a  cold- 
ness swept  along  my  spine.  .  .  .  No,  I  wasn't 
struck.  .  .  . 

"All  right,  Pryor?"Iasked. 

"Something  has  gone  down  my  back;  perhaps 
it's  clay,"  he  answered.  "You're  safe?" 

"I  think  so,"  I  answered.    "Bill." 

"I've  copped  it,"  answered  the  Cockney.  "Here 
in  my  back;  it's  burnin'  'orrid." 

"A  minute,  matey,"  I  said,  tumbling  into  a 
kneeling  position  and  bending  over  him.  "Let 
me  undo  your  equipment." 

I  pulled  his  pack-straps  clear,  loosened  his 
shirt  front  and  tunic,  pulled  the  clothes  down  his 
back.  Under  the  left  shoulder  I  found  a  hot  piece 
of  shrapnel  casing  which  had  just  pierced  through 
his  dress  and  rested  on  the  skin.  A  black  mark 
showed  where  it  had  burned  in,  but  little  harm 
was  done  to  Bill. 

"You're  all  right,  matey,"  I  said.  "Put  on 
your  robes  again." 

"Stretcher-bearers  at  the  double,"  came  the 
cry  up  the  trench  and  I  turned  to  Pryor.  He 
was  attending  to  one  of  our  mates,  a  Section  3 
boy  who  caught  a  bit  in  his  arm  just  over  the 


A  Night  of  Horror  193 

wrist.  He  was  in  pain,  but  the  prospect  of 
getting  out  of  the  trench  buoyed  him  up  into 
great  spirits. 

"It  may  be  England  with  this,"  he  said. 

"Any  others  struck?"  I  asked  Pryor,  who  was 
busy  with  a  first  field  dressing  on  the  wounded 
arm. 

"Don't  know,"  he  answered.  "There  are 
others,  I  think." 

"Every  man  down  this  way  is  struck,"  came 
a  voice;  "one  is  out." 

"Killed?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Spud  Higgles,"  came  the  answer ;  then — "No, 
he's  not  killed;  just  got  a  nasty  one  across  the 
head." 

They  crawled  across  us  on  the  way  to  the 
dressing  station,  seven  of  them.  None  were 
seriously  hurt,  except  perhaps  Spud  Higgles, 
who  was  a  little  groggy  and  vowed  he'd  never 
get  well  again  until  he  had  a  decent  drink  of 
English  beer,  drawn  from  the  tap. 

The  shelling  never  slackened;  and  all  the 
missiles  dropped  perilously  near;  a  circle  of 
five  hundred  yards  with  the  trench  winding 
across  it,  enclosed  the  dumping  ground  of  the 


194  The  Red  Horizon 

German  guns.  At  times  the  trench  was  filled 
with  the  acid  stench  of  explosives  mixed  with 
fine  lime  flung  from  the  fallen  masonry  with 
which  the  place  was  littered.  This  caused  every 
man  to  cough,  almost  choking  as  the  throat  tried 
to  rid  itself  of  the  foreign  substance.  One  or  two 
fainted  and  recovered  only  after  douches  of  cold 
water  on  the  face  and  chest. 

The  suspense  wore  us  down;  we  breathed 
the  suffocating  fumes  of  one  explosion  and 
waited ;  our  senses  tensely  strung  for  the  coming 
of  the  next  shell.  The  sang-froid  which  carried 
us  through  many  a  tight  corner  with  credit 
utterly  deserted  us;  we  were  washed-out  things, 
with  noses  to  the  cold  earth,  like  rats  in  a  trap 
we  waited  for  the  next  moment  which  might  land 
us  into  eternity.  The  excitement  of  a  bayonet 
charge,  the  mad  tussle  with  death  on  the  blood- 
stained field,  which  for  some  reason  is  called  the 
field  of  honour,  was  denied  us;  we  had  to  wait 
and  lie  in  the  trench,  which  looked  so  like  a  grave, 
and  sink  slowly  into  the  depths  of  depression. 

Everything  seemed  so  monstrously  futile,  so 
unfinished,  so  useless.  Would  the  dawn  see 
us  alive  or  dead?  What  did  it  matter?  All 
that  we  desired  was  that  this  were  past,  that  some- 
thing, no  matter  what,  came  and  relieved  us  of 


A  Night  of  Horror  195 

our  position.  All  my  fine  safeguards  against 
terrible  wounds  were  neglected.  What  did  it 
matter  where  a  shell  hit  me  now,  a  weak,  useless 
thing  at  the  bottom  of  a  trench?  Let  it  come, 
blow  me  to  atoms,  tear  me  to  pieces,  what  did  I 
care?  I  felt  like  one  in  a  horrible  nightmare; 
unable  to  help  myself.  I  lay  passive  and  waited. 

I  believe  I  dozed  off  at  intervals.  Visions 
came  before  my  eyes,  the  sandbags  on  the 
parapet  assumed  fantastic  shapes,  became  alive 
and  jeered  down  at  me.  I  saw  Wee  Hughie 
Gallagher  of  Dooran,  the  lively  youth  who  is  so 
real  to  all  the  children  of  Donegal,  look  down  at 
me  from  the  top  of  the  trench.  He  carried  a 
long,  glistening  bayonet  in  his  hand  and  laughed 
at  me.  I  thought  him  a  fool  for  ever  coming 
near  the  field  of  war.  War !  Ah,  it  amused  him ! 
He  laughed  at  me.  I  was  afraid;  he  was  not;  he 
was  afraid  of  nothing.  What  would  Bill  think  of 
him  ?  I  turned  to  the  Cockney ;  but  he  knelt  there, 
head  to  the  earth,  a  motionless  N  •  Was  he 
asleep?  Probably  he  was;  any  way  it  did  not 
matter. 

The  dawn  came  slowly,  a  gradual  awaking 
from  darkness  into  a  cheerless  day,  cloudy  grey 
and  pregnant  with  rain  that  did  not  fall.  Now 
and  again  we  could  hear  bombs  bursting  out  in 


196  The  Red  Horizon 

front  and  still  the  artillery  thundered  at  our  com- 
munication trench. 

Bill  sat  upright  rubbing  his  chest. 

"What's  wrong?"  I  asked. 

"What's  wrong!  Everythink,"  he  answered. 
"There  are  platoons  of  intruders  on  my  shirt, 
sappin'  and  diggin'  trenches  and  Lord  knows 
wot!" 

"Verminous,  Bill?" 

"Cooty  as  'ell,"  he  said.  "But  wait  till  I  go 
back  to  England.  I'll  go  inter  a  beershop  and 
get  a  pint,  a  gallon,  a  barrel — " 

"A  hogshead,"  I  prompted. 

"I've  got  one;  my  own  napper's  an  'og's 
'ead,"  said  Bill. 

"When  I  get  the  beer  I'll  capture  a  coot,  a  big 
bull  coot,  an'  make  'im  drunk,"  he  continued. 
"When  'e's  in  a  fightin'  mood  I'll  put  him  inside 
my  shirt  an'  cut  'im  amok.  There'll  be  ructions ; 
'e'll  charge  the  others  with  fixed  bayonets  an' 
rout  'em.  Oh!  blimey!  will  they  ever  stop  this 
damned  caper  ?  Nark  it.  Fritz,  nark  yer  doin's, 
ye  fool." 

Bill  cowered  down  as  the  shell  burst,  then  sat 
upright  again. 

"I'm  gettin'  more  afraid  of  these  things  every 
hour,"  he  said;  "what  is  the  war  about?" 


A  Night  of  Horror  197 

"I  don't  know,"  I  answered. 

"I'm  sick  of  it,"  Bill  muttered. 

"Why  did  you  join?" 

"To  save  myself  the  trouble  of  telling  people 
why  I  didn't,"  he  answered  with  a  laugh.  "Flat 
on  yer  tummy,  Rifleman  Teake,  there's  another 
shell." 

About  noon  the  shelling  ceased;  we  breathed 
freely  again  and  discovered  we  were  very  hungry. 
No  food  had  passed  our  lips  since  breakfast  the 
day  before.  Stoner  was  afoot,  alert  and  active. 
He  had  slept  for  eight  hours  in  his  cubby-hole 
and  the  youngster  was  now  covered  with  clay 
and  very  dirty. 

"I'll  go  back  to  the  cook's  waggon  at  Givenchy 
and  rake  up  some  grub,"  and  off  he  went. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A   FIELD   OF   BATTLE 

But  the  men  who  stand  to  their  rifles 
See  all  the  dead  on  the  plain 
Rise  at  the  hour  of  midnight 
To  fight  their  battles   again. 

Each  to  his  place  in  the  combat, 
All  to  the  parts  they  played, 
With  bayonet  brisk  to  its  purpose, 
With  rifle  and  hand  grenade. 

Shadow  races  with  shadow, 
Steel  comes  quick  on  steel, 
Swords  that  are  deadly  silent, 
And  shadows  that  do  not  feel. 

And  shades  recoil  and  recover, 
And  fade  away  as  they  fall 
In  the  space  between  the  trenches, 
And  the  watchers  see  it  all. 

I  LAY  down  in  the  trench  and  was  just 
dropping  off  to  sleep  when  a  message 
came  along  the  trench. 

"Any     volunteers     to     help     to     carry     out 
wounded  ?"  was  the  call. 

Four  of  us  volunteered  and  a  guide  conducted 
us  along  to  the  firing  line.     He  was  a  soldier 

of  the  23rd  London,  the  regiment  which  had 

198 


A  Field  of  Battle  199 

made  the  charge  the  night  before;  he  limped  a 
little,  a  dejected  look  was  in  his  face,  and  his 
whole  appearance  betokened  great  weariness. 

"How  did  you  get  on  last  night?"  I  asked  him. 

"My  God!  my  God!"  he  muttered,  and 
seemed  to  be  gasping  for  breath.  "I  suppose 
there  are  some  of  us  left  yet,  but  they'll  be  very 
few." 

"Did  you  capture  the  trench?" 

"They  say  we  did,"  he  answered,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  he  were  speaking  of  an  incident  in  which 
he  had  taken  no  part.  "But  what  does  it  mat- 
ter? There's  few  of  us  left." 

We  entered  the  main  communication  trench, 
one  just  like  the  others,  narrow  and  curving 
round  buttresses  at  every  two  or  three  yards. 
The  floor  was  covered  with  blood,  not  an  inch 
of  it  was  free  from  the  dark  reddish  tint. 

"My  God,  my  God,"  said  the-  23rd  man,  and 
he  seemed  to  be  repeating  the  phrase  without 
knowing  what  he  said.  "The  wounded  have 
been  going  down  all  night,  all  morning,  and 
they're  only  beginning  to  come." 

A  youth  of  nineteen  or  twenty  sat  in  a  niche 
in  the  trench,  naked  to  the  waist  save  where  a 
white  bandage  rested  in  a  long  arm  sling. 

"How  goes  it,  matey?"  I  asked. 


20O  The  Red  Horizon 

"Not  at  all  bad,  chummy,"  he  replied  bravely ; 
then  as  a  spasm  of  pain  shot  through  him  he  mut- 
tered under  his  breath,  "Oh !  oh !" 

A  little  distance  along  we  met  another ;  he  was 
ambling  painfully  down  the  trench,  supporting 
himself  by  resting  his  arms  on  the  shoulders  of  a 
comrade. 

"Not  so  quick,  matey,"  I  heard  him  say.  "Go 
quiet  like  and  mind  the  stones.  When  you  hit 
one  oi  them  it's  a  bit  thick  you  know.  I'm  sorry 
to  trouble  you." 

"It's  all  right,  old  man,"  said  the  soldier  in 
front.  "I'll  try  and  be  as  easy  as  I  can." 

We  stood  against  the  wall  of  the  trench  to  let 
them  go  by.  Opposite  us  they  came  to  a  dead 
stop.  The  wounded  man  was  stripped  to  the 
waist  and  a  bandage,  white  at  one  time  but  now 
red  with  blood,  was  tied  round  his  shoulder.  His 
face  was  white  and  drawn  except  over  his  cheek 
bones.  There  the  flesh,  tightly  drawn,  glowed 
crimson  as  poppies. 

"Have  you  any  water  to  spare,  chummy?"  he 
asked. 

"We've  been  told  not  to  give  water  to  wounded 
men,"  I  said. 

"I  know  that,"  he  answered.  "But  just  a  drop 
to  rinse  out  my  mouth!  I've  lain  out  between 


A  Field  of  Battle  201 

the  lines  all  night;  just  to  rinse  my  mouth, 
chummy !" 

I  drew  the  cork  from  my  water  bottle  and  held 
it  to  his  lips;  he  took  a  mouthful,  paused  irreso- 
lutely for  a  moment  and  a  greedy  light  shone  in 
his  eyes.  Then  he  spat  the  water  on  the  floor 
of  the  trench. 

"Thank  you,  chummy,  thank  you,"  he  said,  and 
the  sorrowful  journey  was  resumed. 

Where  the  road  from  the  village  is  cut  through 
by  the  trench  we  came  on  a  stretcher  lying  on 
the  floor.  On  it  lay  a  man,  or  rather,  part  of  a 
man,  for  both  his  arms  had  been  blown  off  near 
the  shoulders.  A  waterproof  ground  sheet,  cov- 
ered with  mud,  lay  across  him,  the  two  stumps 
stuck  out  towards  the  stretcher-poles.  One  was 
swathed  in  bandages,  the  other  had  come  bare, 
and  a  white  bone  protruded  over  a  red  rag  which 
I  took  to  be  a  first  field  dressing.  Two  men  who 
had  been  busy  helping  the  wounded  all  morning 
and  the  night  before  carried  the  stretcher  to  here, 
through  the  tortuous  cutting.  One  had  now 
dropped  out,  utterly  exhausted.  He  lay  in  the 
trench,  covered  with  blood  from  head  to  foot  and 
gasping.  His  mate  smoked  a  cigarette  leaning 
against  the  revetement. 

"Reliefs  ?"  he  asked,  and  we  nodded  assent. 


202  The  Red  Horizon 

"These  are  the  devil's  own  trenches,"  he  said. 
"The  stretcher  must  be  carried  at  arm's  length 
over  the  head  all  the  way,  even  an  empty  stretcher 
cannot  be  carried  through  here." 

"Can  we  go  out  on  the  road?"  asked  one  of 
my  mates,  an  Irishman  belonging  to  another  sec- 
tion. 

"It'll  be  a  damned  sorry  road  for  you  if  you 
go  out.  They're  always  shelling  it." 

"Who  is  he?"  I  asked  pointing  to  the  figure 
on  the  stretcher.  He  was  unconscious ;  morphia, 
that  gift  of  Heaven,  had  temporarily  relieved  him 
of  his  pain. 

"He's  an  N.C.O.,  we  found  him  lying  out  be- 
tween the  trenches,"  said  the  stretcher-bearer. 
"He  never  lost  consciousness.  When  we  tried 
to  raise  him,  he  got  up  to  his  feet  and  ran  away, 
yelling.  The  pain  must  have  been  awful." 

"Has  the  trench  been  captured?" 

"Of  course  it  has,"  said  the  stretcher-bearer, 
an  ironical  smile  hovering  around  his  eyes. 
"It  has  been  a  grand  victory.  Trench  taken  by 
Territorials,  you'll  see  in  the  papers.  And  there'll 
be  pictures,  too,  of  the  gallant  charge.  Heavens, 
they  should  see  between  the  trenches  where  the 
men  are  blown  to  little  pieces." 

The    cigarette    which    he   held    between   his 


A  Field  of  Battle  203 

blood-stained  fingers  dropped  to  the  ground;  he 
did  not  seem  to  notice  it  fall. 

We  carried  the  wounded  man  out  to  the  road 
and  took  our  way  down  towards  Givenchy. 
The  route  was  very  quiet;  now  and  then  a 
rifle  bullet  flew  by;  but  apart  from  that  there 
was  absolute  peace.  We  turned  in  on  the  Brick 
Pathway  and  had  got  half  way  down  when  a  shell 
burst  fifty  yards  behind  us.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  a  shower  of  splinters  flew  round 
and  above  us,  the  stretcher  sank  towards  the 
ground  and  almost  touched.  Then,  as  if  all  of 
us  had  become  suddenly  ashamed  of  some  in- 
tended action,  we  straightened  our  backs  and 
walked  on.  We  placed  the  stretcher  on  a  table 
in  the  dressing-room  and  turned  back.  Two  days 
later  the  armless  man  died  in  hospital. 

The  wounded  were  still  coming  out;  we  met 
another  party  comprised  of  our  own  men.  The 
wounded  soldier  who  lay  on  the  stretcher  had 
both  legs  broken  and  held  in  place  with  a  rifle 
splint;  he  also  had  a  bayonet  tourniquet  round 
the  thick  of  his  arm.  The  poor  fellow  was  in 
great  agony.  The  broken  bones  were  touching 
one  another  at  every  move.  Now  and 
again  he  spoke  and  his  question  was  always 


2O4  The  Red  Horizon 

the  same:  "Are  we  near  the  dressing  station 
yet?" 

That  night  I  slept  in  the  trench,  slept  heavily. 
I  put  my  equipment  under  me,  that  kept  the 
damp  away  from  my  bones.  In  the  morning 
Stoner  told  an  amusing  story.  During  the 
night  he  wanted  to  see  Bill,  but  did  not  know 
where  the  Cockney  slept. 

"Where's  Bill?"  he  said. 

"Bill,"  I  replied,  speaking  though  asleep. 

"Bill,  yes,"  said  Stoner. 

"Bill,"  I  muttered,  turning  on  my  side,  seeking 
a  more  comfortable  position. 

"Do  you  know  where  Bill  is?"  shouted 
Stoner. 

"Bill!"  I  repeated  again. 

"Yes,  Bill!"  he  said,  "Bill.  B-i-double  1,  Bill. 
Where  is  he?" 

"He's  here,"  I  said,  getting  to  my  feet  and 
holding  out  my  water  bottle.  "In  here." 
And  I  pulled  out  the  cork. 

I  was  twitted  about  this  all  day.  I  remem- 
bered nothing  of  the  incident  of  the  water  bottle 
although  in  some  vague  way  I  recollected 
Stoner  asking  me  about  Bill. 

On  the  following  day  I  had  a  chance  of  visit- 
ing the  scene  of  the  conflict.  All  the  wounded 


A  Field  of  Battle  205 

were  now  carried  away,  only  the  dead  remained, 
as  yet  unburied. 

The  men  were  busy  in  the  trench  which  lay 
on  the  summit  of  a  slope;  the  ground  dipped 
in  the  front  and  rear.  The  field  I  came  across 
was  practically  "dead  ground"  as  far  as  rifle 
fire  was  concerned.  Only  one  place,  the  wire 
front  of  the  original  German  trench,  was 
dangerous.  This  was  "taped  out"  as  our 
boys  say,  by  some  hidden  sniper.  Already  the 
parados  was  lined  with  newly-made  firing 
positions,  that  gave  the  sentry  view  of  the 
German  trench  some  forty  or  fifty  yards  in 
front.  All  there  was  very  quiet  now  but  our 
men  were  making  every  preparation  for  a 
counter  attack.  The  Engineers  had  already 
placed  some  barbed  wire  down;  they  had  been 
hard  at  it  the  night  before ;  I  could  see  the  hastily 
driven  piles,  the  loosely  flung  intricate  lines 
of  wire  flung  down  anyhow.  The  whole 
work  was  part  of  what  is  known  as  "consolida- 
tion of  our  position." 

Many  long  hours  of  labour  had  yet  to  be 
expended  on  the  trench  before  a  soldier  could 
sleep  at  ease  in  it.  Now  that  the  fighting  had 
ceased  for  a  moment  the  men  had  to  bend  their 
backs  to  interminable  fatigues.  The  war,  as 


206  The  Red  Horizon 

far  as  I  have  seen  it,  is  waged  for  the  most  part 
with  big  guns  and  picks  and  shovels.  The 
history  of  the  war  is  a  history  of  sandbags  and 
shells. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  REACTION 

We  are  marching  back  from  the  battle 

Where  we've  all  left  mates  behind, 

And  our  officers  are  gloomy, 

And  the  N.C.O.'s  are  kind, 

When  a  Jew's  harp  breaks  the  silence, 

Purring  out  an  old  refrain; 

And  we  thunder  through  the  village 

Roaring  "Here  we  are  again." 

FOUR  days  later  we  were  relieved  by  the 
Canadians.  They  came  in  about  nine 
o'clock  in  the  evening  when  we  stood-to 
in  the  trenches  in  full  marching  order  under  a 
sky  where  colour  wrestled  with  colour  in  a 
blazing  flare  of  star-shells.  We  went  out 
gladly  and  left  behind  the  dug-out  in  which  we 
cooked  our  food  but  never  slept,  the  old  crazy 
sandbag  construction,  weather-worn  and  shrap- 
nel-scarred, that  stooped  forward  like  a  crone  on 
crutches  on  the  wooden  posts  that  supported 
it. 

"How    many    casualties    have    we    had?"    I 
asked  Stoner  as  we  passed  out  of  the  village 

and  halted  for  a  moment  on  the  verge  of  a 

207 


208  The  Red  Horizon 

wood,  waiting  until  the  men  formed  up  at 
rear. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  gloomily. 
"See  the  crosses  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
soldiers'  cemetery  near  the  trees.  "Seven  of 
the  boys  have  their  graves  in  that  spot;  then 
the  wounded  and  those  who  went  dotty.  Did 
you  see  X.  of Company  coming  out?" 

"No,"  I  said. 

"I  saw  him  last  night  when  I  went  out  to  the 
Quartermaster's  stores  for  rations,"  Stoner  told 
me.  "They  were  carrying  him  out  on  their 
shoulders,  and  he  sat  there  very  quiet  like 
looking  at  the  moon. 

"Over  there  in  the  corner  all  by  themselves 
they  are,"  Stoner  went  on,  alluding  to  the 
graves  towards  which  my  eyes  were  directed. 
"You  can  see  the  crosses,  white  wood " 

"The  same  as  other  crosses?" 

"Just  the  same,"  said  my  mate.  "Printed 
in  black.  Number  something  or  another,  Rifle- 
man So  and  So,  London  Irish  Rifles,  killed  in 
action  on  a  certain  date.  That's  all." 

"Why  do  you  say  'Chummy'  when  talking 
to  a  wounded  man,  Stoner?"  I  asked. 
"Speaking  to  a  healthy  pal  you  just  say 
'mate.'  " 


The  Reaction  209 

"Is  that  so?" 

"That's  so.    Why  do  you  say  it?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"I  suppose  because  it's  more  motherly." 

"That  may  be,"  said  Stoner  and  laughed. 

Quick  march!  The  moon  came  out,  ghostly, 
in  a  cloudy  sky;  a  light,  pale  as  water,  slid  over 
the  shoulders  of  the  men  in  front  and  rippled 
down  the  creases  of  their  trousers.  The 
bayonets  wobbled  wearily  on  the  hips,  those 
bayonets  that  once,  burnished  as  we  knew  how 
to  burnish  them,  were  the  glory  and  delight  of 
many  a  long  and  strict  general  inspection  at 
St.  Albans;  they  were  now  coated  with  mud 
and  thick  with  rust,  a  disgrace  to  the  battalion! 

When  the  last  stray  bullet  ceased  whistling 
over  our  heads,  and  we  were  well  beyond  the 
range  of  rifle  fire,  leave  to  smoke  was  granted. 
To  most  of  us  it  meant  permission  to  smoke 
openly.  Cigarettes  had  been  burned  for  quite 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  and  we  had  raised 
them  at  intervals  to  our  lips,  concealing  the 
glow  of  their  lighted  ends  under  our  curved 
fingers.  We  drew  the  smoke  in  swiftly,  trea- 
sured it  lovingly  in  our  mouths  for  some  time, 
then  exhaled  it  slowly  and  grudgingly. 

The  sky  cleared  a  little,  but  at  times  drifts  of 


2io  The  Red  Horizon 

grey  cloud  swept  over  the  moon  and  blotted 
out  the  stars.  On  either  side  of  the  road  lone 
poplars  stood  up  like  silent  sentinels,  immovable, 
and  the  soft  warm  breeze  that  touched  us  like  a 
breath  shook  none  of  their  branches.  Here  and 
there  lime-washed  cottages,  roofed  with  patches 
of  straw  where  the  enemy's  shells  had  dislodged 
the  terra-cotta  tiles,  showed  lights  in  the 
windows.  The  natives  had  gone  away  and 
soldiers  were  billeted  in  their  places.  Marching 
had  made  us  hot;  we  perspired  freely  and  the 
sweat  ran  down  our  arms  and  legs;  it  trickled 
down  our  temples  and  dropped  from  our  eye- 
brows to  our  cheeks. 

"Hang  on  to  the  step!  Quick  march!  As 
you  were!  About  turn!"  some  one  shouted 
imitating  our  sergeant-major's  voice.  We  had 
marched  in  comparative  silence  up  to  now,  but 
the  mimicked  order  was  like  a  match  applied  to 
a  powder  magazine.  We  had  had  eighteen  days 
in  the  trenches;  we  were  worn  down,  very 
weary  and  very  sick  of  it  all;  now  we  were  out 
and  would  be  out  for  some  days ;  we  were  glad, 
madly  glad.  All  began  to  make  noises  at  the 
same  time,  to  sing,  to  shout,  to  yell;  in  the 
night,  on  the  road  with  its  lines  of  poplars,  we 
became  madly  delirious,  we  broke  free  like  a 


The  Reaction  211 

confused  torrent  from  a  broken  dam.  Every- 
body had  something  to  say  or  sing,  senseless 
chatter  and  sentimental  songs  ran  riot;  all 
uttered  something  for  the  mere  pleasure  of 
utterance ;  we  were  out  of  the  trenches  and  free 
for  the  time  being  from  danger. 

Stoner  marched  on  my  right,  hanging  on  his 
knees  a  little,  singing  a  music  hall  song  and 
smoking.  A  little  flutter  of  ash  fell  from  his 
cigarette,  which  seemed  to  be  stuck  to  his  lower 
lip  as  it  rose  and  fell  with  the  notes  of  the  song. 
When  he  came  to  the  chorus  he  looked  round  as 
if  defying  somebody,  then  raised  his  right  hand 
over  his  head  and,  gripping  his  rifle,  held  the 
weapon  there  until  the  last  word  of  the  chorus 
trembled  on  his  lips;  then  he  brought  it  down 
with  the  last  word  and  looked  round  as  if  to 
see  that  everybody  was  admiring  his  action. 
Bill  played  his  Jew's  harp,  strummed  countless 
sentimental,  music-hall  ditties  on  its  sensitive 
tongue,  his  being  was  flooded  with  exuberant 
song,  he  was  transported  by  his  trumpery  toy. 
Bill  lived,  his  whole  person  surged  with  a 
vitality  impossible  to  stem. 

We  came  in  line  with  a  row  of  cottages, 
soldiers'  billets  for  the  most  part,  and  the  boys 
were  not  yet  in  bed.  It  was  a  place  to  sing 


212  The  Red  Horizon 

something  great,  something  in  sympathy  with 
our  own  mood.  The  song  when  it  came  was 
appropriate;  it  came  from  one  voice,  and  hun- 
dreds took  it  up  furiously  as  if  they  intended 
to  tear  it  to  pieces. 

Here  we  are,  here  we  are,  here  we  are  again. 

The  soldiers  not  in  bed  came  out  to  look  at 
us;  it  made  us  feel  noble;  but  to  me,  with  that 
feeling  of  nobility  there  came  something  pathe- 
tic, an  influence  of  sorrow  that  caused  my  song 
to  dissolve  in  a  vague  yearning  that  still  had  no 
separate  existence  of  its  own.  It  was  as  yet  one 
with  the  night,  with  my  mood  and  the  whole 
spin  of  things.  The  song  rolled  on: — 

Fit  and  well  and  feeling  as  right  as  rain, 

Now  we're  all  together;  never  mind  the  weather, 

Since  here  we  are  again; 

When  there's  trouble  brewing,  when  there's  something  doing, 

Are  we  downhearted  ?     No !  let  them  all  come ! 

Here  we  are,  here  we  are,  here  we  are  again! 

As  the  song  died  away  I  felt  very  lonely,  a 
being  isolated.  True  there  was  a  barn  with 
cobwebs  on  its  rafters  down  the  road,  a  snug 
farm  where  they  made  fresh  butter  and  sold 
new  laid  eggs.  But  there  was  something  in 
the  night,  in  the  ghostly  moonshine,  in  the 


The  Reaction  213 

bushes  out  in  the  fields  nodding  together  as  if 
in  consultation,  in  the  tall  poplars,  in  the 
straight  road,  in  the  sound  of  rifle  firing  to  rear 
and  in  the  song  sung  by  the  tired  boys  coming 
back  from  battle,  that  filled  me  with  infinite 
pathos  and  a  feeling  of  being  alone  in  a  shelter- 
less world.  "Here  we  are;  here  we  are 
again."  I  thought  of  Mervin,  and  six  others 
dead,  of  their  white  crosses,  and  I  found  myself 
weeping  silently  like  a  child.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XVI 

PEACE  AND   WAR 

You'll  see  from  the  La  Bassee  Road,  on  any  summer  day, 
The  children  herding  nanny  goats,  the  women  making  hay. 
You'll  see  the  soldiers,  khaki  clad,  in  column  and  platoon, 
Come  swinging  up  La  Bassee  Road  from  billets  in  Bethune. 
There's  hay  to  save  and  corn  to  cut,  but  harder  work  by  far 
Awaits  the  soldier  boys  who  reap  the  harvest  fields  of  war. 
You'll  see  them  swinging  up  the  road  where  women  work 

at  hay, 
The  long,  straight  road,  La  Bassee  Road,  on  any  summer 

day. 

THE  farmhouse  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
village;  the  village  rested  on  the  banks 
of  a  sleepy  canal  on  which  the  barges 
carried  the  wounded  down  from  the  slaughter 
line  to  the  hospital  at  Bethune.  The 
village  was  shelled  daily.  When  shelling  began 
a  whistle  was  blown,  warning  all  soldiers  to 
seek  cover  immediately  in  the  dug-outs  roofed 
with  sandbags,  which  were  constructed  by  the 
military  authorities  in  nearly  every  garden  in 
the  place.  When  the  housewives  heard  the 
shells  bursting  they  ran  out  and  brought  in  their 

washing  from  the  lines  where  it  was  hung  out  to 

214 


Peace  and  War  215 

dry;  then  they  sat  down  and  knitted  stockings 
or  sewed  garments  to  send  to  their  menfolk  at 
the  war.  In  the  village  they  said:  "When  the 
shells  come  the  men  run  in  for  their  lives,  and 
the  women  run  out  for  their  washing." 

The  village  was  not  badly  battered  by  shell 
fire.  Our  barn  got  touched  once  and  a  large 
splinter  of  a  concussion  shell  which  fell  there 
was  used  as  a  weight  for  a  wag-of-the-wall 
clock  in  the  farmhouse.  The  village  was 
crowded  with  troops,  new  men,  who  wore  clean 
shirts,  neat  puttees  and  creased  trousers.  They 
had  not  been  in  the  trenches  yet,  but  were 
going  up  presently. 

Bill  and  I  were  sitting  in  an  estaminet  when 
two  of  these  youngsters  came  in  and  sat 
opposite. 

"New  'ere?"  asked  Bill. 

"Came  to  Boulogne  six  days  ago  and  marched 
all  the  way  here,"  said  one  of  them,  a  red- 
haired  youth  with  bushy  eyebrows.  "Long 
over?"  he  asked. 

"Just  about  nine  months,"  said  Bill. 

"You've  been  through  it  then." 

"Through  it,"  said  Bill,  lying  splendidly,  "I 
think  we  'ave.  At  Mons  we  went  in  eight 
'undred  strong.  We're  the  only  two  as  is  left." 


2i6  The  Red  Horizon 

"Gracious!     And  you  never  got  a  scratch?" 

"Never  a  pin  prick,"  said  Bill.  "And  I  saw 
the  shells  so  thick  comin'  over  us  that  you 
couldn't  see  the  sky.  They  was  like  crows  up 
above." 

"They  were?" 

"We  were  in  the  trenches  then,"  Bill  said. 
"The  orficer  comes  up  and  sez:  'Things  are 
getting  despirate!  We've  got  to  charge.  'Ool 
f oiler  me?'  'I'm  with  you!'  I  sez,  and  up 
I  jumps  on  the  parapet  pulling  a  machine  gun 
with  me." 

"A  machine  gun!"  said  the  red-haired  man. 

"A  machine  gun,"  Bill  went  on.  "When  one 
is  risen  'e  can  do  anything.  I  could  'ave  lifted 
a  'ole  battery  on  my  shoulders  because  I  was 
mad.  I  'ad  a  look  to  my  front  to  get  the  posi- 
tion, then  I  goes  forward.  'Come  back,'  cried 
the  orficer  as  'e  fell " 

"Fell!" 

"  'E  got  a  bullet  through  his  bread  basket 
and  'e  flopped.  But  there  was  no  'oldin'  o' 
me.  'Twas  death  or  glory,  neck  an'  nothin',  'ell 
for  leather  at  that  moment.  The  London  Irish 
blood  was  up;  one  of  the  Chelsea  Cherubs 
was  out  for  red  blood  'olesale  and  retail.  I 
slung  the  machine  gun  on  my  shoulder,  shar- 


Peace  and  War  217 

pened  my  bayonet  with  a  piece  of  sand-paper, 
took  the  first  line  o'  barbed  wire  entanglements 
at  a  jump  and  got  caught  on  the  second.  It 
gored  me  like  a  bull.  I  got  six  days  C.B.  for 
'avin'  the  rear  of  my  trousers  torn  when  we 
came  out  o'  the  trenches." 

"Tell  me  something  I  can  believe,"  said  the 
red-haired  youth. 

"Am  I  not  tellin'  you  something?"  asked 
Bill.  "Nark  it,  matey,  nark  it.  I  tell  Gospel- 
stories  and  you'll  not  believe  me." 

"But  it's  all  tommy  rot." 

"Is  it?  The  Germans  didn't  think  so  when 
I  charged  plunk  into  the  middle  of  em.  Yer 
should  'ave  been  there  to  see  it.  They  were 
all  round  me  and  two  taubes  over  'ead  watching 
my  movements.  Swish!  and  my  bayonet  went 
through  the  man  in  front  and  stabbed  the 
identity  disc  of  another.  When  I  drew  the 
bayonet  out  the  butt  of  my  'ipe  *  would  'it 
a  man  behind  me  in  the  tummy.  Ugh!  'e 
would  say  and  flop,  bringing  a  mate  down 
with  'im  may  be.  The  dead  was  all  round  me 
and  I  built  a  parapet  of  their  bodies,  puttin' 
the  legs  criss-cross  and  makin'  loop  'oles.  Then 
they  began  to  bomb  me  from  the  other 

*  Rifle, 


218  The  Red  Horizon 

side.  'Twas  gettin'  'ot  I  tell  you  and  I  began 
to  think  of  my  'ome;  the  dug-out  in  the  trench. 
What  was  I  to  do?  If  I  crossed  the  open 
they'd  bring  me  down  with  a  bullet.  There 
was  only  one  thing  to  be  done.  I  had  my 
boots  on  me  for  three  'ole  weeks  of  'ot 
weather,  'otter  than  this  and  beer  not  so  near 
as  it  is  now " 

"Have  another  drink,  Bill?"  I  asked. 

"Glad  yer  took  the  'int,"  said  my  mate. 
"Story  tellin's  a  dry  fatigue.  Well,  as  I  was 
sayin',  my  socks  'ad  been  on  for  a  'ole 
month " 

"Three  weeks,"  I  corrected. 

"Three  weeks,"  Bill  repeated  and  continued. 
"I  took  orf  my  boots.  'Respirators!'  the 
Germans  yelled  the  minute  my  socks  were 
bare,  and  off  they  went  leavin'  me  there  with 
my  'ome-made  trench.  When  I  came  back  I 
got  a  dose  of  C.B.  as  I've  told  you  before." 

We  went  back  to  our  billet.  In  the  farmyard 
the  pigs  were  busy  on  the  midden,  and  they 
looked  at  us  with  curious  expressive  eyes  that 
peered  roguishly  out  from  under  their  heavy 
hanging  cabbage-leaves  of  ears.  In  one  corner 
was  the  field-cooker.  The  cooks  were  busy 
making  dixies  of  bully  beef  stew.  Their  clothes 


Peace  and  War  219 

were  dirty  and  greasy,  so  were  their  arms,  bare 
from  the  shoulders  almost,  and  taut  with 
muscles.  Through  a  path  that  wound  amongst 
a  medley  of  agricultural  instruments,  ploughs, 
harrows  and  grubbers,  the  farmer's  daughter 
came  striding  like  a  ploughman,  two  children 
hanging  on  to  her  apron  strings.  A  stretcher 
leant  against  our  water-cart,  and  dried  clots  of 
blood  were  on  its  shafts.  The  farmer's  dog  lay 
panting  on  the  midden,  his  red  tongue  hanging 
out  and  saliva  dropping  on  the  dung,  overhead 
the  swallows  were  swooping  and  flying  in  under 
the  eaves  where  now  and  again  they  nested  for 
a  moment  before  getting  up  to  resume  their 
exhilarating  flight.  A  dirty  bare-footed  boy 
came  in  through  the  large  entrance-gate  leading 
a  pair  of  sleepy  cows  with  heavy  udders  which 
shook  backwards  and  forwards  as  they  walked. 
The  horns  of  one  cow  were  twisted,  the  end  of 
one  pointed  up,  the  end  of  the  other  pointed 
down. 

One  of  Section  4's  boys  was  looking  at  the 
cow. 

"The  ole  geeser's  'andlebars  is  twisted,"  said 
Bill,  addressing  nobody  in  particular  and  allud- 
ing to  the  cow. 

"It's  'orns,  yer  fool !"  said  Section  4. 


22O  The  Red  Horizon 

"Yer  fool,  yerself!"  said  Bill.  "I'm  not  as 
big  a  fool  as  I  look " 

"Git!    Your  no  more  brains  than  a  en." 

"Nor  'ave  you  either,"  said  Bill. 

"I've  twice  as  many  brains  as  you,"  said 
Section  4. 

"So  'ave  I,"  was  the  answer  made  by  Bill; 
then,  getting  pugilistic,  he  thundered  out:  "I'll 
give  yer  one  on  the  moosh." 

"Will  yer?"  said  Section  4. 

"Straight  I  will.  Give  you  one  across  your 
ugly  phiz!  It  looks  as  if  it  had  been  out  all 
night  and  some  one  dancing  on  it." 

Bill  took  off  his  cap  and  flung  it  on  the  ground 
as  if  it  were  the  gauntlet  of  a  knight  of  old. 
His  hair,  short  and  wiry,  stood  up  on  end. 
Section  4  looked  at  it. 

"Your  hair  looks  like  furze  in  a  fit,"  said 
Section  4. 

"You're  lookin'  for  one  on  the  jor,"  said 
Bill,  closing  and  opening  his  fist.  "And  I'll 
give  yer  one." 

"Will  yer?    Two  can  play  at  that  gyme!" 

Goliath,  massive  and  monumental,  came  along 
at  that  moment.  He  looked  at  Bill. 

"Looking  for  trouble,  mate?"  he  asked. 


Peace  and  War  221 

"Section  4*5  shouting  the  odds,  as  usual," 
Bill  replied. 

"Come  along  to  the  Canal  and  have  a  bath; 
it  will  cool  your  temper." 

"Will  it?"  said  Bill  as  he  came  along  with 
us  somewhat  reluctantly  towards  the  Canal 
banks. 

"What  does  shouting  the  odds  mean?"  I 
asked  him. 

"Chewin'  the  rag,"  he  answered. 

"And  that  means " 

"Kicking  up  a  row  and  lettin'  every  one 
round  you  know,"  said  Bill.  "That's  what 
shoutin'  the  blurry  odds  means." 

"What's  the  difference  between  shouting  the 
odds  and  shouting  the  blurry  odds?"  I  asked. 

"It's  like  this,  Pat,"  Bill  began  to  explain, 
a  blush  rising  on  his  cheeks.  Bill  often  blushed. 
"Shoutin'  the  odds  isn't  strong  enough,  but 
shoutin'  the  blurry  odds  has  ginger  in  it.  It 
makes  a  bloke  listen  to  you." 

Stoner  was  sitting  on  the  bank  of  La  Bassee 
canal,  his  bare  feet  touching  the  water,  his  body 
deep  in  a  cluster  of  wild  iris.  I  sat  down  beside 
him  and  took  off  my  boots. 

I  pulled  a  wild  iris  and  explained  to  Stoner 
how  in  Donegal  we  made  boats  from  the  iris 


222  The  Red  Horizon 

and  placed  them  by  the  brookside  at  night. 
When  we  went  to  bed  the  fairies  crossed  the 
streams  on  the  boats  which  we  made. 

"Did  they  cross  on  the  boats?"  asked 
Stoner. 

"Of  course  they  did,"  I  answered.  "We 
never  found  a  boat  left  in  the  morning." 

"The  stream  washed  them  away,"  said 
Stoner. 

"You  civilised  abomination,"  I  said,  and 
proceeded  to  fashion  a  boat ;  when  it  was  made  I 
placed  it  on  the  stream  and  watched  it  circle 
round  on  an  eddy  near  the  bank. 

"Here's  something,"  said  Stoner,  getting 
hold  of  a  little  frog  with  his  hand  and  placing 
it  on  the  boat.  For  a  moment  the  iris  bark 
swayed  unsteadily,  the  frog's  little  glistening 
eyes  wobbled  in  its  head,  then  it  dived  into  the 
water,  overturning  the  boat  as  it  hopped 
off  it. 

An  impudent-looking  little  boy  with  keen, 
inquisitive  eyes,  came  along  the  canal  side 
wheeling  a  very  big  barrow  on  which  was 
heaped  a  number  of  large  loaves.  His  coat, 
a  torn,  ragged  fringe,  hung  over  the  hips;  he 
wore  a  Balaclava  helmet  (thousands  of  which 


Peace  and  War  223 

have  been  flung  away  by  our  boys  in  the  hot 
weather)  and  khaki  puttees. 

The  boy  came  to  a  stop  opposite,  laid  down 
his  barrow  and  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  brow 
with  a  dirty  hand. 

"Bonjour !"  said  the  boy. 

"Bonjour,  petit  garc.on,"  Stoner  replied, 
proud  of  his  French,  which  is  limited  to  some 
twenty  words. 

The  boy  asked  for  a  cigarette;  a  souvenir. 
We  told  him  to  proceed  on  his  journey,  we  were 
weary  of  souvenir  hunters.  The  barrow  moved 
on,  the  wheel  creaking  rustily,  and  the  boy 
whistled  a  light-hearted  tune.  That  his  request 
had  not  been  granted  did  not  seem  to  trouble 
him. 

Two  barges,  coupled  and  laden  with  coal, 
rounded  a  corner  of  the  canal.  They  were 
drawn  by  five  persons,  a  woman  with  a  very 
white  sunbonnet  in  front.  She  was  followed 
by  a  barefooted  youth  in  khaki  tunic,  a  hunch- 
backed man  with  heavy  projecting  jowl  and  a 
hare-lipped  youth  of  seventeen  or  eighteen. 
Last  on  the  tug  rope  was  an  oldish  man  with  a 
long  white  beard  parted  in  the  middle  and 
rusty  coloured  at  the  tips.  A  graceful  slip  of  a 
girl,  lithe  as  a  marsh  sapling,  worked  the  tiller 


224  The  Red  Horizon 

of  the  rear  barge  and  she  took  no  notice  of  the 
soldiers  on  the  shore  or  in  the  water. 

"Going  to  bathe,  Stoner?"  I  asked. 

"When  the  barges  go  by,"  he  answered,  and 
I  twitted  him  on  his  modesty. 

Goliath,  six  foot  three  of  magnificent  bone 
and  muscle,  was  in  the  canal.  Swanking  his 
trudgeon  stroke  he  surged  through  the  dirty 
water  like  an  excited  whale,  puffing  and  blowing. 
Bill,  losing  in  every  stroke,  tried  to  race  him, 
but  retired  beaten  and  very  happy.  The  cold 
water  rectified  his  temper;  he  was  now  in  a 
most  amiable  humour.  Pryor  was  away  down 
the  canal  on  the  barge,  when  he  came  to  the 
bridge  he  would  dive  off  and  race  some  of 
Section  4  boys  back  to  the  spot  where  I  was 
sitting.  There  is  an  eternal  and  friendly  rivalry 
between  Sections  3  and  4. 

"Stoner,  going  in?"  I  asked  my  comrade, 
who  was  standing  stark  on  the  bank. 

"In  a  minute,"  he  answered. 

"Now,"  I  said. 

"Get  in  yourself " 

"Presently,"  I  replied,  "but  you  go  in  now, 
unless  you  want  to  get  shoved  in." 

He  dived  gracefully  and  came  up  near  the 
other  bank,  spluttering  and  shaking  the  water 


Peace  and  War  225 

off  his  hair.  Bill  challenged  him  to  a  race  and 
both  struck  off  down  the  stream,  as  they  swam 
passing  jokes  with  their  comrades  on  the  bank. 
In  the  course  of  ten  minutes  they  returned, 
perched  proudly  on  the  stern  of  a  barge  and 
making  ready  to  dive.  At  that  moment  I 
undressed  and  went  in. 

My  swim  was  a  very  short  one;  shorter  than 
usual,  and  I  am  not  much  of  a  swimmer.  A 
searching  shell  sped  over  from  the  German 
lines,  hit  the  ground  a  few  hundred  yards 
to  rear  of  the  Canal  and  whirled  a  shower 
of  dust  into  the  water,  which  speedily  delivered 
several  hundred  nude  fighters  to  the  clothes- 
littered  bank.  A  second  and  third  shell  drop- 
ping nearer  drove  all  modest  thoughts  from 
our  minds  for  the  moment  (unclothed,  a  man 
feels  helplessly  defenceless),  and  we  hurried  into 
our  warrens  through  throngs  of  women  rushing 
out  to  take  in  their  washing. 

One  of  the  shells  hit  the  artillery  horse  lines 
on  the  left  of  the  village  and  seven  horses  were 
killed. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

EVERYDAY   LIFE   AT  THE   FRONT 

There's  the  butter,  gad,  and  horse-fly, 
The  blow-fly  and  the  blue, 
The  fine  fly  and  the  coarse  fly, 
But  never  flew  a  worse  fly 
Of  all  the  flies  that  flew 

Than  the  little  sneaky  black  fly 
That  gobbles  up  our  ham, 
The  beggar's  not  a  slack  fly, 
He  really  is  a  crack  fly, 
And  wolfs  the  soldiers'  jam. 

So  straff  that  fly;  our  motto 
Is  "straff  him  when  you  can." 
He'll  die  because  he  ought  to, 
He'll  go  because  he's  got  to, 
So  at  him  every  man. 

WHAT  time  we  have  not  been  in  the 
trenches  we  have  spent  marching  out 
or  marching  back  to  them,  or  sleeping 
in  billets  at  the  rear  and  going  out  as  working 
parties,  always   ready  to  move  at  two  hours' 
notice  by  day  and  one  hour's  notice  by  night. 

I  got  two  days  C.B.  at  La  Beuvriere;  because 
I  did  not  come  out  on  parade  one  morning.     I 

really  got  out  of  bed  very  early,  and  went  for 

226 


Everyday  Life  at  the  Front     227 

a  walk.  Coming  to  a  pond  where  a  number  of 
frogs  were  hopping  from  the  bank  into  the 
water,  I  sat  down  and  amused  myself  by  watch- 
ing them  staring  at  me  out  of  the  pond;  their 
big,  intelligent  eyes  full  of  some  wonderful 
secret.  They  interested  and  amused  me,  prob- 
ably I  interested  and  amused  them,  one  never 
knows.  Then  I  read  a  little  and  time  flew  by. 
On  coming  back  I  was  told  to  report  at  the 
Company  orderly  room.  Two  days  C.B. 

I  got  into  trouble  at  another  time.  I  was  on 
sentry  go  at  a  dingy  place,  a  village  where  the 
people  make  their  living  by  selling  bad  beer  and 
weak  wine  to  one  another.  Nearly  every  house 
in  the  place  is  an  estaminet.  I  slept  in  the 
guardroom  and  as  my  cartridge  pouches  had  an 
unholy  knack  of  prodding  a  stomach  which 
rebelled  against  digesting  bully  and  biscuit, 
I  unloosed  my  equipment  buckles.  The  Visiting 
Rounds  found  me  imperfectly  dressed,  my 
shoulder  flaps  wobbled,  my  haversack  hung  with 
a  slant  and  the  cartridge  pouches  leant  out  as 
if  trying  to  spring  on  my  feet.  The  next 
evening  I  was  up  before  the  C.O. 

My  hair  was  rather  long,  and  as  it  was  well- 
brushed  it  looked  imposing.  So  I  thought  in 
the  morning  when  I  looked  in  the  platoon 


228  The  Red  Horizon 

mirror — the  platoon  mirror  was  an  inch  square 
glass  with  a  jagged  edge.  My  imposing  hair 
caught  the  C.O.'s  eye  the  moment  I  entered  the 
orderly  room.  "Don't  let  me  see  you  with 
hair  like  that  again,"  he  began,  and  read  out  the 
charge.  I  forget  the  words  which  hinted  that 
I  was  a  wrong-doer  in  the  eyes  of  the  law 
military;  the  officers  were  there,  every  officer 
in  the  battalion;  they  all  looked  serious  and 
resigned.  It  seemed  as  if  their  minds  had  been 
made  up  on  something  relating  to  me. 

The  orderly  officer  who  apprehended  me  in 
the  act  told  how  he  did  it,  speaking  as  if  from 
a  book,  but  consulting  neither  notes  nor  papers. 

"What  have  you  to  say?"  asked  the  C.O., 
looking  at  me. 

I  had  nothing  particular  to  say,  my  thoughts 
were  busy  on  an  enigma  that  might  not  interest 
him,  namely,  why  a  young  officer  near  him 
kept  rubbing  a  meditative  chin  with  a  fugitive 
finger,  and  why  that  finger  came  down  so 
swiftly  when  the  C.O.'s  eyes  were  turned 
towards  the  young  man.  I  replied  to  the  ques- 
tion by  saying  "Guilty." 

"We  know  you  are  guilty,"  said  the  C.O., 
and  gave  me  a  little  lecture.  I  had  a  reputa- 
tion, the  young  men  of  the  regiment  looked  up 


Everyday  Life  at  the  Front     229 

to  me,  an  older  man;  and  by  setting  a  good 
example  I  could  do  a  great  deal  of  good,  &c., 
&c.  The  lecture  was  very  trying,  but  the  rest 
of  the  proceedings  were  interesting.  I  was 
awarded  three  extra  guards.  I  only  did  one 
of  them. 

We  hung  on  the  fringe  of  the  Richebourge 
melee,  but  were  not  called  into  play. 

"What  was  it  like?"  we  asked  the  men 
marching  back  from  battle  in  the  darkness 
and  the  rain.  There  was  no  answer,  they  were 
too  weary  even  to  speak. 

"How  did  you  get  along  in  the  fight?"  I 
called  to  one  who  straggled  along  in  the  rear, 
his  head  sunk  forward  on  his  breast,  his  knees 
bending  towards  the  ground. 

"Tsch!  Tsch!"  he  answered,  his  voice 
barely  rising  above  a  whisper  as  his  boots  paced 
out  in  a  rhythm  of  despair  to  some  village  at 
the  rear. 

There  in  the  same  place  a  night  later,  we  saw 
soldiers'  equipments  piled  on  top  of  one  another 
and  stretching  for  yards  on  either  side  of  the 
road:  packs,  haversacks,  belts,  bayonets,  rifles, 
and  cartridge  pouches.  The  equipments  were 
taken  in  from  the  field  of  battle,  the  war-harness 
of  men  now  wounded  and  dead  was  out  of  use 


230  The  Red  Horizon 

for  the  moment ;  other  soldiers  would  wear  them 
presently  and  make  great  fight  in  them. 

Once  at  Cuinchy,  Section  3  went  out  for  a 
wash  in  a  dead  stream  that  once  flowed  through 
our  lines  and  those  of  the  Germans.  The  water 
was  dirty  and  it  was  a  miracle  that  the  frogs 
which  frisked  in  it  were  so  clean. 

"It's  too  dirty  to  wash  there,"  said  Pryor. 

"A  change  of  dirt  is  'olesome,"  said  Bill, 
placing  his  soap  on  the  bank  and  dipping  his 
mess  tin  in  the  water.  As  he  bent  down  the 
body  of  a  dead  soldier  inflated  by  its  own 
rottenness  bubbled  up  to  the  surface.  We  gave 
up  all  idea  of  washing.  Stoner,  who  was  on  the 
opposite  bank,  tried  to  jump  across  at  that 
moment.  Miscalculating  the  distance,  he  fell 
short  and  into  the  water.  We  dragged  him  out 
spluttering  and,  I  regret  to  say,  we  laughed, 
almost  heartily.  That  night,  when  we  stood  to 
arms  in  the  trenches,  waiting  for  an  attack  that 
did  not  come  off,  Stoner  stood-to  his  rifle  with 
an  overcoat,  a  pair  of  boots  and  a  pair  of  socks 
as  his  sole  uniform 

How  many  nights  have  we  marched  under 
the  light  of  moon  and  stars,  sleepy  and  dog- 
weary,  in  song  or  in  silence,  as  the  mood 
prompted  us  or  the  orders  compelled  us,  up  to 


Everyday  Life  at  the  Front     231 

the  trenches  and  back  again.  We  have  slept 
in  the  same  old  barns  with  cobwebs  in  the  roof 
and  straw  deep  on  the  floor.  We  have  sung 
songs,  old  songs  that  float  on  the  ocean  of  time 
like  corks  and  find  a  cradle  on  every  wave; 
new  songs  that  make  a  momentary  ripple  on 
the  surface  and  die  as  their  circle  extends 
outwards,  songs  of  love  and  lust,  of  murder 
and  great  adventure.  We  have  gambled,  won  one 
another's  money  and  lost  to  one  another  again, 
we  have  had  our  disputes,  but  were  firm  in 
support  of  any  member  of  our  party  who  was 
flouted  by  any  one  who  was  not  one  of  WE. 
"Section  3,  right  or  wrong"  was  and  is  our 
motto.  And  the  section  dwindles;  the  bullet 
and  shell  has  been  busy  in  lessening  our  strength, 
for  that  is  the  way  of  war. 

When  in  the  trenches  Bill  and  Kore  amuse 
themselves  by  potting  all  day  long  at  the 
German  lines.  A  conversation  like  the  following 
may  be  often  heard: 

Bill:— "Blimey,  I  see  a  'ead." 

Kore:— "Fire  then."  (Bill  fires  a  shot.) 
"Got  him?" 

Bill: — "No  blurry  fear.  The  'ead  was  a 
sandbag.  I'll  bet  yer  the  shot  they  send  back 


232  The  Red  Horizon 

will  come  nearer  me  than  you.  Bet  yer  a 
copper." 

Kore: — "Done."  (A  bullet  whistles  by  on 
the  right  of  Bill's  head.)  "I  think  they're  firing 
at  you." 

Bill: — "Not  me,  matey,  but  you.  It's  their 
aiming  that's  bad.  'And  over  the  coin."  (Enter 
an  officer.) 

Officer: — "Don't  keep  your  heads  over  the 
parapet;  you'll  get  sniped.  Keep  under  cover 
as  much  as  possible." 

Bill:— "Orl  right,  Sir." 

Kore:— "Yes,  sir."     (Exit  Officer.) 

Bill: — "They  say  there's  a  war  'ere." 

Kore: — "It's  only  a  rumour." 

At  Cuinchy,  where  the  German  trenches  are 
hardly  a  hundred  yards  away  from  ours,  the 
firing  from  the  opposite  trenches  ceased  for  a 
moment  and  a  voice  called  across. 

"What  about  the  Cup  Final?"  It  was  then 
the  finish  of  the  English  football  season. 

"Chelsea  lost,"  said  Bill,  who  was  a  staunch 
supporter  of  that  team. 

"Hard  luck!"  came  the  answer  from  the  Ger- 
man trench,  and  firing  was  resumed.  But  Bill 
used  his  rifle  no  more  until  we  changed  into  a 
new  locality.  "A  blurry  supporter  of  blurry 


Everyday  Life  at  the  Front     233 

Chelsea,"  he  said.  "  'E  must  be  a  damned  good 
sort  of  sausage-eater,  that  feller.  If  ever  I 
meet  'im  in  Lunnon  after  the  war,  I'm  goin'  to 
make  'im  as  drunk  as  a  public-'ouse  fly." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  after  the  war?" 
I  asked. 

He  rubbed  his  eyes,  which  many  sleepless 
nights  in  a  shell-harried  trench  had  made  red 
and  watery. 

"What  will  I  do?"  he  repeated.  "I'll  get 
two  beds,"  he  said,  "and  have  a  six  months' 
snooze,  and  I'll  sleep  in  one  bed  while  the  other's 
being  made,  matey." 

In  trench  life  many  new  friends  are  made  and 
many  old  friendships  renewed.  We  were  nurs- 
ing a  contingent  of  Camerons,  men  new  to  the 
grind  of  trench  work,  and  most  of  them  hailing 
from  Glasgow  and  the  West  of  Scotland.  On 
the  morning  of  the  second  day  one  of  them  said 
to  me,  "Big  Jock  MacGregor  wants  to  see 
you." 

"Who's  Big  Jock?"  I  asked. 

"He  used  to  work  on  the  railway  at 
Greenock,"  I  was  told,  and  off  I  went  to  seek 
the  man. 

I  found  him  eating  bully  beef  and  biscuit  on 
the  parapet.  He  was  spotlessly  clean,  he  had 


234  The  Red  Horizon 

not  yet  stuck  his  spoon  down  the  rim  of  his 
stocking  where  his  skean  should  have  been,  he 
had  a  table  knife  and  fork  (things  that  we,  old 
soldiers,  had  dispensed  with  ages  ago) ;  in 
short,  he  was  a  hat-box  fellow,  togged  up  to 
the  nines,  and,  as  yet,  green  to  the  grind  of  war. 

His  age  might  be  forty,  he  looked  fifty,  a 
fatherly  sort  of  man,  a  real  block  of  Caledonian 
Railway  thrown,  tartanised,  into  a  trench. 

"How  are  you,  Jock?"  I  said.  I  had  never 
met  him  before. 

"Are  you  Pat  MacGill?" 

I  nodded  assent. 

"Man,  I've  often  heard  of  you,  Pat,"  he  went 
on ;  "I  worked  on  the  Sou' West,  and  my  brother's 
an  engine  driver  on  the  Caly.  He  reads  your 
songs  a'most  'every  night.  He  says  there  are 
only  two  poets  he'd  give  a  fling  for — that's 
you  and  Anderson,  the  man  who  wrote 
Cuddle  Doon" 

"How  do  you  like  the  trenches,  Jock?" 

"Not  so  bad,  man,  not  so  bad,"  he  said. 

"Killed  any  one  yet?"  I  asked. 

"Not  yet,"  he  answered  in  all  seriousness. 
"But  there's  a  sniper  over  there,"  and  he 
pointed  a  clean  finger,  quite  untrenchy  it  was, 


Everyday  Life  at  the  Front     235 

towards  the  enemy's  lines,  "and  he's  fired  three 
at  me." 

"At  you?"  I  asked. 

"Ay,  and  I  sent  him  five  back " 

"And  didn't  do  him  in?"  I  asked. 

"Not  yet,  but  if  I  get  another  two  or  three 
at  him,  I'll  not  give  much  for  his  chance." 

"Have  you  seen  him?"  I  asked,  marvelling 
that  Big  Jock  had  already  seen  a  sniper. 

"No,  but  I  heard  the  shots  go  off." 

A  rifle  shot  is  the  most  deceptive  thing  in  the 
world,  so,  like  an  old  soldier  wise  in  the  work, 
I  smiled  under  my  hand. 

I  don't  believe  that  Big  Jock  has  killed  his 
sniper  yet,  but  it  has  been  good  to  see  him. 
When  we  meet  he  says,  "What  about  the  Caly, 
Pat?"  and  I  answer,  "What  about  the  Sou'- 
West,  Jock?" 

On  the  first  Sunday  after  Trinity  we  marched 
out  from  another  small  village  in  the  hot  after- 
noon. This  one  was  a  model  village,  snug 
in  the  fields,  and  dwindling  daily.  The  German 
shells  are  dropping  there  every  day.  In  the 
course  of  another  six  months  if  the  fronts  of  the 
contending  armies  do  not  change,  that  village 
will  be  a  litter  of  red  bricks  and  unpeopled  ruins. 
As  it  is  the  women,  children  and  old  men  still 


236  The  Red  Horizon 

remain  in  the  place  and  carry  on  their  usual 
labours  with  the  greatest  fortitude  and  patience. 
The  village  children  sell  percussion  caps  of 
German  shells  for  half  a  franc  each,  but  if  the 
shell  has  killed  any  of  the  natives  when  it 
exploded,  the  cap  will  not  be  sold  for  less  than 
thirty  sous.  But  the  sum  is  not  too  dear  for  a 
nosecap  with  a  history. 

There  are  a  number  of  soldiers  buried  in  the 
graveyard  of  this  place.  At  one  corner  four 
different  crosses  bear  the  following  names: 
Anatole  Series,  Private  O'Shea,  Corporal  Smith, 
and  under  the  symbol  of  the  Christian  religion 
lies  one  who  came  from  sunny  heathen  clime  to 
help  the  Christian  in  his  wars.  His  name 
is  Jaighandthakur,  a  soldier  of  the  Bengal 
Mountain  Battery. 

It  was  while  here  that  Bill  complained  of 
the  scanty  allowance  of  his  rations  to  an  officer, 
when  plum  pudding  was  served  at  dinner. 

"Me  and  Stoner  'as  got  'ardly  nuffink,"  Bill 
said. 

"How  much  have  you  got?"  asked  the 
officer. 

"You  could  'ardly  see  it,  it's  so  small,"  said 
Bill.  "But  now  it's  all  gone." 

"Gone?" 


Everyday  Life  at  the  Front     237 

"A  fly  flew  away  with  my  portion,  and 
Stoner's  'as  fallen  through  the  neck  of  'is 
waterbottle,"  said  Bill.  The  officer  ordered  both 
men  to  be  served  out  with  a  second  portion. 

We  left  the  village  in  the  morning  and 
marched  for  the  best  part  of  the  day.  We  were 
going  to  hold  a  trench  five  kilometres  north  of 
Souchez  and  the  Hills  of  Lorette.  The  trenches 
to  which  we  were  going  had  recently  been  held 
by  the  French  but  now  that  portion  of  the  line 
is  British;  our  soldiers  fight  side  by  side  with 
the  French  on  the  Hills  of  Lorette  at  present. 

The  day  was  exceedingly  hot,  a  day  when 
men  sweat  and  grumble  as  they  march,  when 
they  fall  down  like  dead  things  on  the  roadside 
at  every  halt  and  when  they  rise  again  they 
wonder  how  under  Heaven  they  are  going  to 
drag  their  limbs  and  burdens  along  for  the  next 
forty  minutes.  We  passed  Les  Brebes,  like 
men  in  a  dream,  pursued  a  tortuous  path  across 
a  wide  field,  in  the  middle  of  which  are  several 
shell-shattered  huts  and  some  acres  of  shell- 
scooped  ground.  The  place  was  once  held  by 
a  French  battery  and  a  spy  gave  the  position 
away  to  the  enemy.  Early  one  morning  the 
shells  began  to  sweep  in,  carrying  the  message 
of  death  from  guns  miles  away.  Never  have  I 


238  The  Red  Horizon 

seen  such  a  memento  of  splendid  gunnery  as 
that  written  large  in  shell-holes  on  that  field. 
The  bomb-proof  shelters  are  on  a  level  with  the 
ground,  the  vicinity  is  pitted  as  if  with  smallpox, 
but  two  hundred  yards  out  on  any  side  there  is 
not  a  trace  of  a  shell;  every  shot  went  true  to 
the  mark.  A  man  with  a  rifle  two  hundred 
yards  away  could  not  be  much  more  certain 
than  the  German  gunners  of  a  target  as  large. 
But  their  work  went  for  nothing:  the  battery 
had  changed  its  position  the  night  previous  to 
the  attack.  Had  it  remained  there  neither 
man  nor  gun  would  have  escaped. 

The  communication  trench  we  found  to  be 
one  of  the  widest  we  had  ever  seen;  a  hand- 
barrow  could  have  been  wheeled  along  the  floor. 
At  several  points  the  trench  was  roofed  with 
heavy  pit-props  and  sandbags  proof  against 
any  shrapnel  fire.  It  was  an  easy  trench  to 
march  in,  and  we  needed  all  the  ease  possible. 
The  sweat  poured  from  every  pore,  down  our 
faces,  our  arms  and  legs ;  our  packs  seemed  filled 
with  lead;  our  haversacks  rubbing  against  our 
hips  felt  like  sand-paper;  the  whole  march  was 
a  nightmare.  The  water  we  carried  got  hot  in 
our  bottles  and  became  almost  undrinkable. 


Everyday  Life  at  the  Front     239 

In  the  reserve  trench  we  got  some  tea,  a  godsend 
to  us  all. 

We  had  just  stepped  into  a  long,  dark,  pit- 
prop-roofed  tunnel  and  the  light  of  the  outer 
world  made  us  blind.  I  shuffled  up  against  a 
man  who  was  sitting  on  one  side,  righted  myself 
and  stumbled  against  the  knees  of  another  who 
sat  on  a  seat  opposite. 

"Will  ye  have  a  wee  drop  of  tay,  my  man?" 
a  voice  asked,  an  Irish  voice,  a  voice  that 
breathed  of  the  North  of  Ireland.  I  tried  to 
see  things,  but  could  not.  I  rubbed  my  eyes 
and  had  a  vision  of  an  arm  stretching  towards 
me;  a  hand  and  a  mess-tin.  I  drank  the  tea 
greedily. 

"There's  a  lot  of  you  ones  comin'  up,"  the 
voice  said.  "You  ones!"  How  often  have  I 
said,  "You  ones,"  how  often  do  I  say  it  still 
when  I'm  too  excited  to  be  grammatical.  "Ye 
had  a'  must  to  be  too  late  for  tay!"  the  voice 
said  from  the  darkness. 

"What  does  he  say?"  asked  Pryor,  who  was 
just  ahead  of  me. 

"He  says  that  we  were  almost  too  late  for 
tea,"  I  replied,  and  stared  hard  into  the  darkness 
on  my  left.  Figures  of  men  in  khaki  took  form 
in  the  gloom,  a  bayonet  sparkled;  some  one 


240  The  Red  Horizon 

was  putting  a  lid  on  a  mess-tin  and  I  could  see 
the  man  doing  it.  ... 

"Inniskillings  ?"  I  asked. 

"That's  us." 

"Quiet?"  I  asked,  alluding  to  their  life  in 
the  trench. 

"Not  bad  at  all,"  was  the  answer.  "A  shell 
came  this  road  an  hour  agone,  and  two  of 
us  got  hit." 

"Killed?" 

"Boys,  oh!  boys,  aye,"  was  the  answer;  "and 
seven  got  wounded.  Nine  of  the  best,  man, 
nine  of  the  best.  Have  another  drop  of 
toy?" 

At  the  exit  of  the  tunnel  the  floor  was  covered 
with  blood  and  the  flies  were  buzzing  over  it; 
the  sated  insects  rose  lazily  as  we  came  up, 
settled  down  in  front,  rose  again  and  flew  back 
over  our  heads.  What  a  feast  they  were  having 
on  the  blood  of  men! 

The  trenches  into  which  we  had  come  were 
not  so  clean  as  many  we  had  been  in  before; 
although  the  dug-outs  were  much  better  con- 
structed than  those  in  the  British  lines,  they 
smelt  vilely  of  something  sickening  and 
nauseous. 

A  week  passed  away  and  we  were  still  in  the 


Everyday  Life  at  the  Front     241 

trenches.  Sometimes  it  rained,  but  for  the 
most  part  the  sky  was  clear  and  the  sun  very 
hot.  The  trenches  were  dug  out  of  the  chalk, 
the  world  in  which  we  lived  was  a  world  of 
white  and  green,  white  parapet  and  parados  with 
a  fringe  of  grass  on  the  superior  slope  of  each. 
The  place  was  very  quiet,  not  more  than 
two  dozen  shells  came  our  way  daily,  and  it 
was  there  that  I  saw  a  shell  in  the  air,  the  only 
shell  in  flight  I  have  ever  seen.  It  was  dropping 
to  earth  behind  the  parados  and  I  had  a  distinct 
view  of  the  missile  before  ducking  to  avoid  the 
splinters  flung  out  by  the  explosion.  Hundreds 
of  shells  have  passed  through  the  sky  near  me 
every  day;  I  could  almost  see  them  by  their 
sound  and  felt  I  could  trace  the  line  made  by 
them  in  their  flight,  but  this  was  the  only  time 
I  ever  saw  one. 

The  hills  of  Lorette  stood  up  sullen  on  our 
right  in  a  basin  scooped  out  on  its  face,  a 
hollow  not  more  than  five  hundred  yards  square 
we  could  see,  night  and  day,  an  eternal  artillery 
conflict  in  progress,  in  the  daylight  by  the  smoke 
and  in  the  dark  by  the  flashes  of  bursting  shells. 
It  was  an  awe-inspiring  and  wonderful  picture, 
this  titanic  struggle;  when  I  looked  on  it  I  felt 
that  it  was  not  good  to  see — it  was  the  face  of 


242  The  Red  Horizon 

a  god.  The  mortal  who  gazed  on  it  must  die. 
But  by  night  and  day  I  spent  most  of  my  spare 
time  in  watching  the  smoke  of  bursting  shells 
and  the  flash  of  innumerable  explosions. 

One  morning,  after  six  days  in  the  trenches, 
I  was  seated  on  the  parados  blowing  up  an 
air  pillow  which  had  been  sent  to  me  by  an 
English  friend  and  watching  the  fight  at 
Souchez  when  Bill  came  up  to  me. 

"Wot's  that  yer've  got?"  he  asked. 

"An  air  pillow,"  I  answered. 

"  'Ow  much  were  yer  rushed  for  it  ?" 

"Somebody  sent  it  to  me,"  I  said. 

"To  rest  yer  weary  'ead  on?" 

I  nodded. 

"I  like  a  fresh  piller  every  night,"  said  Bill. 

"A  fresh  what?" 

"A  fresh  brick." 

"How  do  you  like  these  trenches?"  I  asked 
after  a  short  silence. 

"Not  much,"  he  answered.  "They're  all 
blurry  flies  and  chalk."  He  gazed  ruefully  at 
the  white  sandbags  and  an  army  ration  of 
cheese  rolled  up  in  a  paper  on  which  blow-flies 
were  congregating.  Chalk  was  all  over  the 
place;  the  dug-outs  were  dug  out  of  chalk,  the 
sandbags  were  filled  with  chalk;  every  bullet, 


Everyday  Life  at  the  Front     243 

bomb  and  shell  whirled  showers  of  fine  powdery 
chalk  into  the  air;  chalk  frittered  away  from 
the  parapets  fell  down  into  our  mess-tins  as 
we  drank  our  tea,  the  rain-wet  chalk  melted 
to  milk  and  whitened  the  barrels  and  actions 
of  our  rifles  where  they  stood  on  the  banquette, 
bayonets  up  to  the  sky. 

Looking  northward  when  one  dared  to  raise 
his  head  over  the  parapet  for  a  moment,  could 
be  seen  white  lines  of  chalk  winding  across  a 
sea  of  green  meadows  splashed  with  daisies  and 
scarlet  poppies.  Butterflies  flitted  from  flower 
to  flower  and  sometimes  found  their  way  into 
our  trench  where  they  rested  for  a  moment  on 
the  chalk  bags,  only  to  rise  again  and  vanish 
over  the  fringes  of  green  that  verged  the  limits 
of  our  world.  Three  miles  away,  rising  lonely 
over  the  beaten  zone  of  emerald,  stood  a  red 
brick  village,  conspicuous  by  the  spire  of  its 
church  and  an  impudent  chimney,  with  part 
of  its  side  blown  away,  that  stood  stiff  in  the 
air.  A  miracle  that  it  had  not  fallen  to  pieces. 
Over  the  latrine  at  the  back  the  flies  were  busy, 
their  buzzing  reminded  me  of  the  sound  made 
by  shell  splinters  whizzing  through  the  air. 

The  space  between  the  trenches  looked  like 
a  beautiful  garden;  green  leaves  hid  all  shrapnel 


244  The  Red  Horizon 

scars  on  the  shivered  trees,  thistles  with  magnif- 
icent blooms  rose  in  line  along  the  parapet, 
grasses  hung  over  the  sandbags  of  the  parapet 
and  seemed  to  be  peering  in  at  us,  asking  if  we 
would  allow  them  to  enter.  The  garden  of 
death  was  a  riot  of  colour,  green,  crimson, 
heliotrope  and  poppy-red.  Even  from  amidst 
the  chalk  bags,  a  daring  little  flower  could  be 
seen  showing  its  face;  and  a  primrose  came  to 
blossom  under  the  eaves  of  our  dug-out. 
Nature  was  hard  at  work  blotting  out  the  dis- 
figurement caused  by  man  to  the  face  of  the 
country. 

At  noon  I  sat  in  the  dug-out  where  Bill  was 
busy  repairing  a  defect  in  his  mouth  organ. 
The  sun  blazed  overhead,  and  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  write,  eat,  or  even  to  sleep. 

The  dug-out  was  close  and  suffocating;  the 
air  stank  of  something  putrid,  of  decaying  flesh, 
of  wasting  bodies  of  French  soldiers  who  had 
fallen  in  a  charge  and  were  now  rotting  in  the 
midst  of  the  fair  poppy  flowers.  They  lay  as 
they  fell,  stricken  headlong  in  the  great  frenzy 
of  battle,  their  fingers  wasted  to  the  bone,  still 
clasping  their  rifles  or  clenching  the  earth  which 
they  pulled  from  the  ground  in  the  mad  agony 
of  violent  death.  Now  and  again,  mingled  with 


Everyday  Life  at  the  Front     245 

the  stench  of  death  and  decay,  the  breeze  wafted 
into  our  dug-out  an  odour  of  flowers. 

The  order  came  like  a  bomb  flung  into  the 
trench  and  woke  us  up  like  an  electric  thrill. 
True  we  did  not  believe  it  at  first,  there  are  so 
many  practical  jokers  in  our  ranks.  Such  an 
insane  order!  Had  the  head  of  affairs  gone 
suddenly  mad  that  such  an  order  was  issued? 
"All  men  get  ready  for  a  bath.  Towels  and 
soap  are  to  be  carried!!!" 

"Where  are  we  going  to  bathe?"  I  asked  the 
platoon  sergeant. 

"In  the  village  at  the  rear,"  he  answered. 

"There's  nobody  there,  nothing  but  battered 
houses,"  I  answered.  "And  the  place  gets 
shelled  daily." 

"That  doesn't  matter,"  said  the  platoon 
sergeant.  "There's  going  to  be  a  bath  and  a 
jolly  good  one  for  all.  Hot  water." 

We  went  out  to  the  village  in  the  rear,  the 
vilage  of  Shattered  Homes,  which  were  bunched 
together  under  the  wall  of  a  rather  pretentious 
villa  that  had  so  far  suffered  very  little  from 
the  effects  of  the  German  artillery.  As  yet  the 
roof  and  windows  were  all  that  were  damaged, 
the  roof  was  blown  in  and  the  window  glass  was 
smashed  to  pieces. 


246  The  Red  Horizon 

We  got  a  good  bath,  a  cold  spray  whizzed 
from  the  nozzle  of  a  serpentine  hose,  and  a 
share  of  underclothing.  The  last  we  needed 
badly  for  the  chalk  trenches  were  very  ver- 
minous. We  went  back  clean  and  wholesome; 
the  bath  put  new  life  into  us. 

That  same  evening,  what  time  the  star-shells 
began  to  flare  and  the  flashes  of  the  guns  could 
be  seen  on  the  hills  of  Lorette,  two  of  our  men 
got  done  to  death  in  their  dug-out.  A  shell  hit 
the  roof  and  smashed  the  pit-props  down  on 
top  of  the  two  soldiers.  Death  was  instantane- 
ous in  both  cases. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  COVERING   PARTY 

Along  the  road  in  the  evening  the  brown  battalions  wind, 
With  the   trenches'   threat  of  death   before,   the   peaceful 

homes  behind; 
And  luck  is  with  you  or  luck  is  not,  as  the  ticket  of  fate  is 

drawn, 
The  boys  go  up  to  the  trench  at  dusk,  but  who  will  come 

back  at  dawn? 

THE  darkness  clung  close  to  the  ground, 
the  spinney  between  our  lines  was  a 
bulk  of  shadow  thinning  out  near  the 
stars.  A  light  breeze  scampered  along  the  floor 
of  the  trench  and  seemed  to  be  chasing  some- 
thing. The  night  was  raw  and  making  for  rain ; 
at  midnight  when  my  hour  of  guard  came  to 
an  end  I  went  to  my  dug-out,  the  spacious  con- 
struction, roofed  with  long  wooden  beams 
heaped  with  sandbags,  which  was  built  by  the 
French  in  the  winter  season,  what  time  men 
were  apt  to  erect  substantial  shelters,  and  know 
their  worth.  The  platoon  sergeant  stopped  me 
at  the  door. 

"Going  to  have  a  kip,  Pat?"  he  asked. 

247 


248  The  Red  Horizon 

"If  I'm  lucky,"  I  answered. 

"Your  luck's  dead  out,"  said  the  sergeant. 
"You're  to  be  one  of  a  covering  party  for  the 
Engineers.  They're  out  to-night  repairing  the 
wire  entanglements." 

"Any  more  of  the  Section  going  out?"  I 
asked. 

"Bill's  on  the  job,"  I  was  told.  The  sergeant 
alluded  to  my  mate,  the  vivacious  Cockney,  the 
spark  who  so  often  makes  Section  3  in  its 
dullest  mood,  explode  with  laughter. 

Ten  minutes  later  Bill  and  I,  accompanied  by 
a  corporal  and  four  other  riflemen,  clambered 
over  the  parapet  out  on  to  the  open  field.  We 
came  to  the  wire  entanglements  which  ran  along 
in  front  of  the  trench  ten  or  fifteen  yards  away 
from  the  reverse  slope  of  the  parapet.  The 
German  artillery  had  played  havoc  with  the 
wires  some  days  prior  to  our  occupation  of  the 
trench;  the  stakes  had  been  battered  down  and 
most  of  the  defence  had  been  smashed  to 
smithereens.  Bombarding  wire  entanglements 
seems  to  be  an  artillery  pastime;  when  we 
smash  those  of  the  Germans  they  reply  by 
smashing  ours,  then  both  sides  repair  the  dam- 
age only  to  start  the  game  of  demolition  over 
again. 


The  Covering  Party  249 

The  line  of  entanglements  does  not  run 
parallel  with  the  trench  it  covers,  although  when 
seen  from  the  parapet  its  inner  stakes  seem 
always  to  be  about  the  same  distance  away 
from  the  nearest  sandbags.  But  taken  in  rela- 
tion to  the  trench  opposite  the  entanglements 
are  laid  with  occasional  V-shaped  openings 
narrowing  towards  our  trench. 

The  enemy  plan  an  attack.  At  dusk  or 
dawn  their  infantry  will  make  a  charge  over 
the  open  ground,  raked  with  machine 
gun,  howitzer,  and  rifle  fire.  Between  the 
trenches  is  the  beaten  zone,  the  field  of  death. 
The  moment  the  attacking  party  pull  down  the 
sandbags  from  the  parapet,  its  sole  aim  is  to  get 
to  the  other  side.  The  men  become  creatures 
of  instinct,  mad  animals  with  only  one  desire, 
that  is  to  get  to  the  other  side  where  there  is 
comparative  safety.  They  dash  up  to  a  jumble 
of  trip  wires  scattered  broadcast  over  the  field 
and  thinning  out  to  a  point,  the  nearest  point 
which  they  reach  in  the  enemy's  direction. 
Trip  wires  are  the  quicksands  of  the  beaten 
zone,  a  man  floundering  amidst  them  gets  lost. 
The  attackers  realise  this  and  the  instinct  which 
tells  them  of  a  certain  amount  of  safety  in  the 
vicinity  of  an  unfriendly  trench  urges  them  pell 


250  The  Red  Horizon 

mell  into  the  V-shaped  recess  that  narrows 
towards  our  lines.  Here  the  attackers  are 
heaped  up,  a  target  of  wriggling  humanity; 
ready  prey  for  the  concentrated  fire  of  the 
rifles  from  the  British  trench.  The  narrow  part 
of  the  V  becomes  a  welter  of  concentrated 
horror,  the  attackers  tear  at  the  wires  with  their 
hands  and  get  ripped  flesh  from  bone,  mutilated 
on  the  barbs  in  the  frenzied  efforts  to  get 
through.  The  tragedy  of  an  advance  is  painted 
red  on  the  barbed  wire  entanglements. 

In  one  point  our  wires  had  been  cut  clean 
through  by  a  concussion  shell  and  the  entangle- 
ment looked  as  if  it  had  been  frozen  into  im- 
mobility in  the  midst  of  a  riot  of  broken  wires 
and  shattered  posts.  We  passed  through  the 
lane  made  by  the  shell  and  flopped  flat  to  earth 
on  the  other  side  when  a  German  star-shell  came 
across  to  inspect  us.  The  world  between  the 
trenches  was  lit  up  for  a  moment.  The  wires 
stood  out  clear  in  one  glittering  distortion,  the 
spinney,  full  of  dark  racing  shadows,  wailed 
mournfully  to  the  breeze  that  passed  through  its 
shrapnel-scarred  branches,  white  as  bone  where 
their  bark  had  been  peeled  away.  In  the  mys- 
teries of  light  and  shade,  in  the  threat  that 
hangs  forever  over  men  in  the  trenches  there 


The  Covering  Party  251 

was  a  wild  fascination.  I  was  for  a  moment 
tempted  to  rise  up  and  shout  across  to  the 
German  trenches,  I  am  here!  No  defiance 
would  be  in  the  shout.  It  was  merely  a  momen- 
tary impulse  born  of  adventure  that  intoxicates. 
Bill  sprung  to  his  feet  suddenly,  rubbing  his 
face  with  a  violent  hand;  this  in  full  view 
of  the  enemy's  trench  in  a  light  that  illumined 
the  place  like  a  sun. 

"Bill,  Bill !"  we  muttered  hoarsely. 

"Well,  blimey,  that's  a  go,"  he  said  coughing 
and  spitting.  "What  'ave  I  done,  splunk  on 
a  dead  'un  I  flopped,  a  stinking  corpse.  'E  was 
'uggin'  me,  kissin'  me.  Oh!  nark  the  game, 
ole  stiff  Jun,"  said  Bill,  addressing  the  ground 
where  I  could  perceive  a  bundle  of  dark  clothes, 
striped  with  red  and  deep  in  the  grass.  "Talk 
about  rotten  eggs  burstin'  on  your  jor;  they're 
not  in  it." 

The  light  of  the  star-shell  waned  and  died 
away;  the  Corporal  spoke  to  Bill. 

"Next  time  a  light  goes  up  you  be  flat;  you're 
giving  the  whole  damned  show  away,"  the  Cor- 
poral said.  "If  you're  spotted  it's  all  up  with 
us." 

We  fixed  swords,  clamping  them  into  the 
bayonet  standards,  and  lay  flat  on  the  ground 


252  The  Red  Horizon 

in  the  midst  of  dead  bodies  of  French  soldiers. 
Months  before  the  French  endeavoured  to  take 
the  German  trenches  and  got  about  half  way 
across  the  field.  There  they  stopped,  mown 
down  by  rifle  and  machine  gun  fire,  and  they  lie 
there  still,  little  bundles  of  wasting  flesh  in  the 
midst  of  the  poppies.  When  the  star-shells 
went  up  I  could  see  a  face  near  me,  a  young 
face,  clean-shaven  and  very  pale  under  a  wealth 
of  curly  hair.  It  was  the  face  of  a  mere  boy, 
the  eyes  were  closed  as  if  the  youth  were  only 
asleep.  It  looked  as  if  the  effacing  finger  of 
decay  had  forborne  from  working  its  will  on 
the  helpless  thing.  His  hand  still  gripped  the 
rifle,  and  the  long  bayonet  on  the  standard 
shone  when  the  light  played  upon  it.  It  seemed 
as  if  he  fell  quietly  to  the  ground,  dead.  Others, 
I  could  see,  had  died  a  death  of  agony;  they 
lay  there  in  distorted  postures,  some  with  faces 
battered  out  of  recognition,  others  with  their 
hands  full  of  grass  and  clay  as  if  they  had  torn 
up  the  earth  in  their  mad,  final  frenzy.  Not  a 
nice  bed  to  lie  in  during  a  night  out  on 
listening  patrol.* 

The  Engineers  were  now  at  work  just  behind 

*  The  London  Irish  charged  over  this  ground  later,  and 
entered  Loos  on  Saturday,  25th  September,  1915. 


The  Covering  Party  253 

us ;  I  could  see  their  dark  forms  flitting  amongst 
the  posts,  straightening  the  old  ones,  driving 
in  fresh  supports  and  pulling  the  wires  taut. 
They  worked  as  quietly  as  possible,  but  to  our 
ears,  tensely  strained,  the  noise  of  labour  came 
like  the  rumble  of  artillery.  The  enemy  must 
surely  hear  the  sound.  Doubtless  he  did,  but 
probably  his  own  working  parties  were  busy 
just  as  ours  were.  In  front,  when  one  of  our 
star-shells  went  across,  I  fancied  that  I  could 
see  dark  forms  standing  motionless  by  the  Ger- 
man trench.  Perhaps  my  eyes  played  me  false, 
the  objects  might  be  tree-trunks  trimmed  down 
by  shell  fire.  .  .  . 

The  message  came  out  from  our  trench  and 
the  Corporal  passed  it  along  his  party.  "On 
the  right  a  party  of  the  — th  London  are 
working/'  This  was  to  prevent  us  mistaking 
them  for  Germans.  All  night  long  operations 
are  carried  on  between  the  lines,  if  daylight 
suddenly  shot  out  about  one  in  the  morning 
what  a  scene  would  unfold  itself  in  No  Man's 
Land;  listening  patrols  marching  along,  En- 
gineers busy  with  the  wires,  sanitary  squads 
burying  the  dead  and  covering  parties  keeping 
watch  over  all  the  workers. 

"Halt!  who  goes  there?" 


254  The  Red  Horizon 

The  order,  loud  and  distinct,  came  from  the 
vicinity  of  the  German  trench,  then  followed  a 
mumbled  reply  and  afterwards  a  scuffle,  a 
sound  as  of  steel  clashing  on  steel,  and  then 
subdued  laughter.  What  had  happened?  Next 
day  we  heard  that  a  sergeant  and  three  men  of 
the  — th  were  out  on  patrol  and  went  too  near 
the  enemy's  lines.  Suddenly  they  were  con- 
fronted by  several  dark  forms  with  fixed  bayo- 
nets and  the  usual  sentry's  challenge  was  yelled 
out  in  English.  Believing  that  he  had  fallen 
across  one  of  his  own  outposts,  the  unsus- 
pecting sergeant  gave  the  password  for  the 
night,  approached  those  who  challenged  him 
and  was  immediately  made  prisoner.  Two 
others  met  with  the  same  fate,  but  one  who  had 
been  lagging  at  the  rear  got  away  and  managed 
to  get  back  to  his  own  lines.  Many  strange 
things  happen  between  the  lines  at  night;  work- 
ing parties  have  no  love  for  the  place  and 
hundreds  get  killed  there. 

The  slightest  tinge  of  dawn  was  in  the  sky 
when  our  party  slipped  back  over  the  parapet 
and  stood  to  arms  on  the  banquette  and  yawned 
out  the  conventional  hour  when  soldiers  await 
the  attacks  which  so  often  begin  at  dawn. 


The  Covering  Party  255 

We  go  out  often  as  working  parties  or  listen- 
ing patrols. 

From  Souchez  to  Ypres  the  firing  line  runs 
through  a  land  of  stinking  drains,  level  fields, 
and  shattered  villages.  We  know  those  villages, 
we  have  lived  in  them,  we  have  been  sniped  at 
in  their  streets  and  shelled  in  the  houses.  We 
have  had  men  killed  in  them,  blown  to  atoms  or 
buried  in  masonry,  done  to  death  by  some 
damnable  instrument  of  war. 

In  our  trenches  near  Souchez  you  can  see 
the  eternal  artillery  fighting  on  the  hills 
of  Lorette,  up  there  men  are  flicked  out 
of  existence  like  flies  in  a  hailstorm.  The  big 
straight  road  out  of  a  village  runs  through 
our  lines  into  the  German  trenches  and  beyond. 
The  road  is  lined  with  poplars  and  green  with 
grass ;  by  day  you  can  see  the  German  sandbags 
from  our  trenches,  by  night  you  can  hear  the 
wind  in  the  trees  that  bend  towards  one  another 
as  if  in  conversation.  There  is  no  whole  house 
in  the  place;  chimneys  have  been  blown  down 
and  roofs  are  battered  by  shrapnel.  But  few 
of  the  people  have  gone  away;  they  have  become 
schooled  in  the  process  of  accommodation,  and 
accommodate  themselves  to  a  woful  change. 
They  live  with  one  foot  on  the  top  step  of 


256  The  Red  Horizon 

the  cellar  stairs;  a  shell  sends  them  scamper- 
ing down;  they  sleep  there,  they  eat  there, 
in  their  underground  home  they  wait  for  the 
war  to  end.  The  men  who  are  too  old  to  fight 
labour  in  a  neighbouring  mine,  which  still  does 
some  work  although  its  chimney  is  shattered 
and  its  coal  waggons  are  scraps  of  wood  and 
iron  on  broken  rails.  There  are  many  graves 
by  the  church,  graves  of  our  boys,  civilians' 
graves,  children's  graves,  all  victims  of  war. 
Children  are  there  still,  merry  little  kids  with 
red  lips  and  laughing  eyes. 

One  day,  when  staying  in  the  village,  I  met 
one,  a  dainty  little  dot,  with  golden  hair  and 
laughing  eyes,  a  pink  ribbon  round  a  tress  that 
hung  roguishly  over  her  left  cheek.  She  smiled 
at  me  as  she  passed  where  I  sat  on  the  roadside 
under  the  poplars,  her  face  was  an  angel's  set 
in  a  disarray  of  gold.  In  her  hand  she  carried 
an  empty  jug,  almost  as  big  as  herself,  and  she 
was  going  to  her  home,  one  of  the  inhabited 
houses  nearest  the  fighting  line.  The  day  had 
been  a  very  quiet  one  and  the  village  took  an 
opportunity  to  bask  in  the  sun.  I  watched  her 
go  up  the  road  tripping  lightly  on  the  grass, 
swinging  her  big  jug.  Life  was  a  garland  of 
flowers  for  her ;  it  was  good  to  watch  her,  to  see 


The  Covering  Party  257 

her  trip  along;  the  sight  made  me  happy. 
What  caused  the  German  gunner,  a  simple 
woodman  and  a  father  himself  perhaps,  to  fire 
at  that  moment?  What  demon  guided  the 
shell?  Who  can  say?  The  shell  dropped  on 
the  roadway  just  where  the  child  had  been;  I 
saw  the  explosion  and  dropped  flat  to  avoid  the 
splinters;  when  I  looked  again  there  was  no 
child,  no  jug;  where  she  had  been  was  a  heap 
of  stones  on  the  grass  and  dark  curls  of  smoke 
rising  up  from  it.  I  hastened  indoors;  the 
enemy  were  shelling  the  village  again. 

Our  billet  is  a  village  with  shell-scarred  trees 
lining  its  streets,  and  grass  peeping  over  its 
fallen  masonry;  a  few  inn  signs  still  swing  and 
look  like  corpses  hanging;  at  night  they  creak 
as  if  in  agony.  This  place  was  taken  from  the 
Germans  by  the  French,  from  the  French  by 
the  Germans,  and  changed  hands  several  times 
afterwards.  The  streets  saw  many  desperate 
hand  to  hand  encounters;  they  are  clean  now 
but  the  village  stinks ;  men  were  buried  there  by 
cannon;  they  lie  in  the  cellars  with  the  wine 
barrels,  bones,  skulls,  fleshless  hands  sticking  up 
over  the  bricks,  the  grass  has  been  busy  in  its 
endeavour  to  cloak  up  the  horror,  but  it  will  take 
nature  many  years  to  hide  the  ravages  of  war. 


258  The  Red  Horizon 

In  another  small  village  three  kilometres 
from  the  firing  line  I  have  seen  the  street  so 
thick  with  flies  that  it  was  impossible  to  see  the 
cobbles  underneath.  There  we  could  get  Eng- 
lish papers  the  morning  after  publication:  for 
penny  papers  we  paid  three  halfpence,  for 
halfpenny  papers  twopence!  In  a  restaurant 
in  the  place  we  got  a  dinner  consisting  of 
vegetable  soup,  fried  potatoes,  and  egg  ome- 
lette, salad,  bread,  beer,  a  sweet  and  a  cup  of 
cafe  au  lait  for  fifteen  sous  per  man.  There 
too  on  a  memorable  occasion  we  were  paid  the 
sum  of  ten  francs  on  pay  day. 

In  a  third  village  not  far  off  six  of  us  soldiers 
slept  one  night  in  a  cellar  with  a  man,  his  wife 
and  seven  children,  one  a  sucking  babe.  That 
night  the  roof  of  the  house  was  blown  in  by  a 
shell.  In  the  same  place  my  mate  and  I  went 
out  to  a  restaurant  for  dinner,  and  a  young 
Frenchman,  a  gunner,  sat  at  our  table.  He 
came  from  the  south,  a  shepherd  boy  from  the 
foothills  of  the  Pyrenees.  He  shook  hands 
with  us,  giving  the  left  hand,  the  one  next  the 
heart,  as  a  proof  of  comradeship  when  leaving. 
A  shrapnel  bullet  caught  him  inside  the  door 
and  he  fell  dead  on  the  pavement.  Every  stone 
standing  or  fallen  in  the  village  by  the  firing  line 


The  Covering  Party  259 

has  got  a  history,  and  a  tragedy  connected 
with  it. 

In  some  places  the  enemy's  bullets  search  the 
main  street  by  night  and  day;  a  journey  from 
the  rear  to  the  trenches  is  made  across  the 
open  and  the  eternal  German  bullet  never  leaves 
off  searching  for  our  boys  coming  in  to  the 
firing  line.  You  can  rely  on  sandbagged 
safety  in  the  villages  but  on  the  way  from  there 
to  the  trenches,  you  merely  trust  your  luck; 
for  the  moment  your  life  has  gone  out  of  your 
keeping. 

No  civilian  is  allowed  to  enter  one  place,  but 
I  have  seen  a  woman  there.  We  were  coming 
in,  a  working  party,  from  the  trenches  when  the 
colour  of  dawn  was  in  the  sky.  We  met  her  on 
the  street  opposite  the  pile  of  bricks  that  once 
was  a  little  church:  the  spire  of  the  church 
was  blown  off  months  ago  and  it  sticks  point 
downwards  in  a  grave.  The  woman  was  taken 
prisoner.  Who  was  she?  Where  did  she  come 
from?  None  of  us  knew,  but  we  concluded  she 
was  a  spy.  Afterwards  we  heard  that  she  was 
a  native  who  had  returned  to  have  a  look  at  her 
home. 

We  were  billeted  at  the  rear  of  the  village  on 


260  The  Red  Horizon 

the  ground  floor  of  a  cottage.  Behind  our 
billet  was  the  open  country  where  Nature,  the 
great  mother,  was  busy;  the  butterflies  flitted 
over  the  soldiers'  graves,  the  grass  grew  over 
unburied  dead  men,  who  seemed  to  be  sinking 
into  the  ground;  apple  trees  threw  out  a  wealth 
of  blossom  which  the  breezes  flung  broadcast  to 
earth  like  young  lives  in  the  whirlwind  of  war. 
We  first  came  to  the  place  at  midnight;  in  the 
morning  when  we  got  up  we  found  outside  our 
door,  in  the  midst  of  a  jumble  of  broken  pump 
handles  and  biscuit  tins,  fragments  of  chairs, 
holy  pictures,  crucifixes  and  barbed  wire  en- 
tanglements, a  dead  dog  dwindling  to  dust,  the 
hair  falling  from  its  skin  and  the  white  bones 
showing.  As  we  looked  on  the  thing  it  moved, 
its  belly  heaved  as  if  the  animal  had  gulped  in 
a  mouthful  of  air.  We  stared  aghast  and  our 
laughter  was  not  hearty  when  a  rat  scurried 
out  of  the  carcase  and  sought  safety  in  a  hole  of 
the  adjoining  wall.  The  dog  was  buried  by  the 
Section  3.  Four  simple  lines  serve  as  its 
epitaph : — 

Here  lies  a  dog  as  dead  as  dead, 
A  Sniper's  bullet  through  its  head, 
Untroubled  now  by  shots  and  shells, 
It  rots  and  can  do  nothing  else. 


The  Covering  Party  261 

The  village  where  I  write  this  is  shelled  daily ; 
yesterday  three  men,  two  women  and  two 
children,  all  civilians,  were  killed.  The  natives 
have  become  almost  indifferent  to  shell-fire. 

In  the  villages  in  the  line  of  war  between 
Souchez  and  Ypres  strange  things  happen  and 
wonderful  sights  can  be  seen. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

SOUVENIR   HUNTERS 

I  have  a  big  French  rifle,  its  stock  is  riddled  clean, 

And  shrapnel  smashed  its  barrel,  likewise  its  magazine; 

I've  carried  it  from  A  to  X  and  back  to  A  again, 

I've  found  it  on  the  battlefield  amidst  the  soldiers  slain. 

A  souvenir  for  blighty  away  across  the  foam, 

That's  if  the  French  authorities  will  let  me  take  it  home. 

MOST  people  are  souvenir  hunters,  but 
the  craze  for  souvenirs  has  never 
affected  me  until  now;  at  present  I 
have  a  decent  collection  of  curios,  consisting 
amongst  other  things  of  a  French  rifle,  which  I 
took  from  the  hands  of  a  dead  soldier  on  the 
field  near  Souchez;  a  little  nickel  boot,  which 
was  taken  from  the  pack  of  a  Breton  piou-piou 
who  was  found  dead  by  a  trench  in  Vermelles — 
one  of  our  men  who  obtained  this  relic  carried  it 
about  with  him  for  many  weeks  until  he  was 
killed  by  a  shell  and  then  the  boot  fell  into  my 
hands.  I  have  two  percussion  caps,  one  from 
a  shell  that  came  through  the  roof  of  a  dug-out 
and  killed  two  of  our  boys,  the  other  was  gotten 

beside  a  dead  lieutenant  in  a  deserted  house  in 

262 


Souvenir  Hunters  263 

Festubert.  In  addition  to  these  I  have  many 
shell  splinters  that  fell  into  the  trench  and 
landed  at  my  feet,  rings  made  from  aluminium 
timing-pieces  of  shells  and  several  other  odds 
and  ends  picked  up  from  the  field  of  battle. 
Once  I  found  a  splendid  English  revolver — but 
that  is  a  story. 

We  were  billeted  in  a  model  mining- 
village  of  red  brick  houses  and  terra  cotta 
tiles,  where  every  door  is  just  like  the 
one  next  to  it  and  the  whole  place  gives  the 
impression  of  monotonous  sameness  relieved 
here  and  there  by  a  shell-shattered  roof,  a 
symbol  of  sorrow  and  wanton  destruction.  In 
this  place  of  an  evening  children  may  be  seen 
out  of  doors  listening  for  the  coming  of  the 
German  shells  and  counting  the  number  that 
fall  in  the  village.  From  our  billets  we  went 
out  to  the  trenches  by  Vermelles  daily,  and  cut 
the  grass  from  the  trenches  with  reaping  hooks. 
In  the  morning  a  white  mist  lay  on  the  meadows 
and  dry  dung  and  dust  rose  from  the  roadway 
as  we  marched  out  to  our  labour. 

We  halted  by  the  last  house  in  the  village, 
one  that  stood  almost  intact,  although  the  ad- 
joining buildings  were  well  nigh  levelled  to  the 


264  The  Red  Horizon 

ground.  My  mate,  Pryor,  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  villa. 

"I'm  going  in  there,"  he  said,  pointing  at 
the  doors. 

"Souvenirs?"  I  asked. 

"Souvenirs,"  he  replied. 

The  two  of  us  slipped  away  from  the  platoon 
and  entered  the  building.  On  the  ground  floor 
stood  a  table  on  which  a  dinner  was  laid;  an 
active  service  dinner  of  soup  made  from  soup 
tablets  (2d.  each)  the  wrappers  of  which  lay  on 
the  tiled  floor,  some  tins  of  bully  beef,  opened, 
a  loaf,  half  a  dozen  apples  and  an  unopened  tin 
of  cafe  au  lait.  The  dinner  was  laid  for  four, 
although  there  were  only  three  forks,  two 
spoons  and  two  clasp  knives,  the  latter  were 
undoubtedly  used  to  replace  table  knives. 
Pryor  looked  under  the  table,  then  turned  round 
and  fixed  a  pair  of  scared  eyes  on  me,  and 
beckoned  me  to  approach.  I  came  to  his  side 
and  saw  under  the  table  on  the  floor  a  human 
hand,  severed  from  the  arm  at  the  wrist. 
Beside  it  lay  a  web-equipment,  torn  to  shreds, 
a  broken  range-finder  and  a  Webley  revolver, 
long  of  barrel  and  heavy  of  magazine. 

"A   souvenir,"   said   Pryor.      "It   must   have 


Souvenir  Hunters  265 

been  some  time  since  that  dinner  was  made; 
the  bully  smells  like  anything." 

"The  shell  came  in  there,"  I  said,  pointing  at 
the  window,  the  side  of  which  was  broken  a 
little,  "and  it  hit  one  poor  beggar  anyway.  No- 
body seems  to  have  come  in  here  since  then." 

"We'll  hide  the  revolver,"  Pryor  remarked, 
"and  we'll  come  here  for  it  to-night." 

We  hid  the  revolver  behind  the  door  in  a 
little  cupboard  in  the  wall;  we  came  back  for  it 
two  days  later,  but  the  weapon  was  gone  though 
the  hand  still  lay  on  the  floor.  What  was  the 
history  of  that  house  and  of  the  officers  who 
sat  down  to  dinner?  Will  the  tragedy  ever 
be  told? 

I  had  an  interesting  experience  near  Souchez 
when  our  regiment  was  holding  part  of  the  line 
in  that  locality.  On  the  way  in  was  a  single 
house,  a  red  brick  villa,  standing  by  the  side  of 
the  communication  trench  which  I  used  to  pass 
daily  when  I  went  out  to  get  water  from  the 
carts  at  the  rear.  One  afternoon  I  climbed 
over  the  side  and  entered  the  house  by  a  side 
door  that  looked  over  the  German  lines.  The 
building  was  a  conspicuous  target  for  the 
enemy,  but,  strange  to  say,  it  had  never  been 
touched  by  shell  fire;  now  and  again  bullets 


266  The  Red  Horizon 

peppered  the  walls,  chipped  the  bricks,  and 
smashed  the  window-panes.  On  the  ground 
floor  was  a  large  living-room  with  a  big-bodied 
stove  in  the  centre  of  the  floor,  religious  pictures 
hung  on  the  wall,  a  grandfather's  clock  stood 
in  the  niche  near  the  door,  the  blinds  were  drawn 
across  the  shattered  windows,  and  several 
chairs  were  placed  round  a  big  table  near  the 
stove.  Upstairs  in  the  bedrooms  the  beds  were 
made  and  in  one  apartment  a  large  perambu- 
lator, with  a  doll  flung  carelessly  on  its  coverlet, 
stood  near  the  wall,  the  paper  of  which  was 
designed  in  little  circles  and  in  each  circle  were 
figures  of  little  boys  and  girls,  hundreds  of 
them,  frivolous  mites,  absurd  and  gay. 

Another  stair  led  up  to  the  garret,  a  gloomy 
place  bare  under  the  red  tiles,  some  of  which 
were  broken.  Looking  out  through  the  aper- 
ture in  the  roof  I  could  see  the  British  and 
German  trenches  drawn  as  if  in  chalk  on  a  slate 
of  green  by  an  erratic  hand,  the  hand  of  an  idle 
child.  Behind  the  German  trenches  stood  the 

red  brick  village  of  ,   with   an   impudent 

chimney  standing  smokeless  in  the  air,  and  a 
burning  mine  that  vomited  clouds  of  thick  black 
smoke  over  meadow-fields  splashed  with  poppies. 
Shells  were  bursting  everywhere  over  the  grass 


Souvenir  Hunters  267 

and  the  white  lines;  the  greenish  grey  fumes  of 
lyddite,  the  white  smoke  of  shrapnel  rose  into 
mid-air,  curled  away  and  died.  On  the  left  of 
the  village  a  road  ran  back  into  the  enemy's 
land,  and  from  it  a  cloud  of  dust  was  rising 
over  the  tree-tops;  no  doubt  vehicles  of  war 
which  I  could  not  see  were  moving  about  in 
that  direction.  I  stayed  up  in  that  garret  for 
quite  an  hour,  full  of  the  romance  of  my 
watch,  and  when  I  left  I  took  my  souvenir 
with  me,  a  picture  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  in  a 
cedar  frame.  That  night  we  placed  it  outside 
our  dug-out  over  the  door.  In  the  morning  we 
found  it  smashed  to  pieces  by  a  bullet. 

Daily  I  spent  some  time  in  the  garret  on  my 
way  out  to  the  water-cart;  and  one  day  I  found 
it  occupied.  Five  soldiers  and  an  officer  were 
standing  at  my  peephole  when  I  got  up,  with 
a  large  telescope  fixed  on  a  tripod  and  trained 
on  the  enemy's  lines.  The  War  Intelligence 
Department  had  taken  over  the  house  for  an 
observation  post. 

"What  do  you  want  here?"  asked  the 
officer. 

Soldiers  are  ordered  to  keep  to  the  trenches 
on  the  way  out  and  in,  none  of  the  houses  that 
line  the  way  are  to  be  visited.  It  was  a  case 


268  The  Red  Horizon 

for  a  slight  prevarication.  My  water  jar  was 
out  in  the  trench:  I  carried  my  rifle  and  a 
bandolier. 

"I'm  looking  for  a  sniping  position,"  I  said. 

"You  cannot  stop  here,"  said  the  officer. 
"We've  taken  this  place  over.  Try  some  of 
the  houses  on  the  left." 

I  cleared  out.  Three  days  later  when  on  my 
usual  errand  I  saw  that  the  roof  of  my  observa- 
tion villa  had  been  blown  in.  Nobody  would 
be  in  there  now  I  concluded  and  ventured  inside. 
The  door  which  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  garret 
stair  was  closed.  I  caught  hold  of  the  latch  and 
pulled  it  towards  me;  the  door  held  tight.  As  I 
struggled  with  it  I  had  a  sense  of  pulling  against 
a  detaining  hand  that  strove  to  hide  a  mystery, 
something  fearful,  from  my  eye.  It  swung 
towards  me  slowly  and  a  pile  of  bricks  fell  on 
my  feet  as  it  opened.  Something  dark  and 
liquid  oozed  out  under  my  boots.  I  felt  myself 
slip  on  it  and  knew  that  I  stood  on  blood. 
All  the  way  up  the  rubble-covered  stairs  there 
was  blood;  it  had  splashed  red  on  the  railings 
and  walls.  Laths,  plaster,  tiles  and  beams  lay 
on  the  floor  above  and  in  the  midst  of  the  jumble 
was  a  shattered  telescope  still  moist  with  the 
blood  of  men.  Had  all  been  killed  and  were  all 


Souvenir  Hunters  269 

those  I  had  met  a  few  days  before  in  the  garret 
when  the  shell  landed  on  the  roof?  It  was 
impossible  to  tell. 

I  returned  to  the  dug-out  meditating  on  the 
strange  things  that  can  be  seen  by  him  who 
goes  souvenir-hunting  between  Souchez  and 
Ypres.  As  I  entered  I  found  Bill  gazing 
mutely  at  some  black  liquid  in  a  sooty  mess- 
tin. 

"Some  milk,  Bill,"  I  said,  handing  him  the  tin 
of  Nestle's  which  had  just  come  to  me  in  a 
Gargantuan  parcel  from  an  English  friend. 

"No  milk,  matey,"  he  answered,  "I'm  feelin' 
done  up  proper,  I  am.  Cannot  eat  a  bite. 
Tummy  out  of  order,  my  'ead  spinnin'  like  a 
top.  When's  sick  parade?"  he  asked. 

"Seven  o'clock,"  I  said.  "Is  it  as  bad  as 
that?" 

"Worse  than  that,"  he  answered  with  a  smile. 
"  'Ave  yer  a  cigarette  to  spare?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,   fumbling  in  my  pocket. 

"Well,  give  it  to  somebody  as  'asn't  got 
none,"  said  Bill;  "I'm  off  the  smokin'  a  bit." 

The  case  was  really  serious  since  Bill  could 
not  smoke;  a  smokeless  hour  was  for  him  a 
Purgatorial  period;  his  favourite  friend  was 
his  fag.  After  tea  I  went  with  him  to  the  dress- 


270  The  Red  Horizon 

ing  station,  and  Ted  Vittle  of  Section  4  accom- 
panied us.  Ted's  tummy  was  also  out  of  order 
and  his  head  was  spinning  like  a  top.  The 
men's  equipment  was  carried  out,  men  going 
sick  from  the  trenches  to  the  dressing-station 
at  the  rear  carry  their  rifles  and  all  portable 
property  in  case  they  are  sent  off  to  hospital. 
The  sick  soldier's  stuff  always  goes  to  hospital 
with  him. 

I  stood  outside  the  door  of  the  dressing- 
station  while  the  two  men  were  in  with  the  M.O. 
"What's  wrong,  Bill?"  I  asked  him  when  he 
came  out. 

"My  tempratoor's  an  'undred  and  nine,"  said 
my  comrade. 

"A  hundred  and  what?"  I  ejaculated. 

"  'Undred  point  nine  'is  was,"  said  Ted- Vittle. 
"Mine's  a  'undred  point  eight.  The  Twentieth 
'as  'ad  lots  of  men  gone  off  to  'orsp  to-day 
sufferin'  from  the  same  thing.  Pyraxis  the 
M.O.  calls  it.  Trench  fever  is  the  right  name." 

"Right?"  interrogated  Bill. 

"Well  it's  a  name  we  can  understand,"  said 
Ted. 

"Are  you  going  back  to  the  trenches  again?" 
I  asked. 

"We're  to  sleep   'ere  to-night   in  the   cellar 


Souvenir  Hunters  271 

under  the  dressin'-station,"  they  told  me.  "In 
the  mornin'  we're  to  report  to  the  doctor  again. 
'E's  a  bloke  'e  is,  that  doctor.  'E  says  we're 
to  take  nothing  but  heggs  and  milk  and  the 
milk  must  be  boiled." 

"Is  the  army  going  to  supply  it?" 

"No  blurry  fear,"  said  Bill.  "Even  if  we 
'ad  the  brass  and  the  appetite  we  can't  buy  any 
milk  or  heggs  'ere." 

I  went  back  to  the  firing  trench  alone.  Bill 
and  Ted  Vittle  did  not  return  the  next  day  or 
the  day  after.  Three  weeks  later  Bill  came 
back. 

We  were  sitting  in  our  dug-out  at  a  village 
the  bawl  of  a  donkey  from  Souchez,  when  a 
Jew's  harp,  playing  ragtime,  was  heard  outside. 

"Bill,"  we  exclaimed  in  a  voice,  and  sure 
enough  it  was  Bill  back  to  us  again,  trig  and 
tidy  from  hospital,  in  a  new  uniform,  new  boots, 
and  with  that  air  of  importance  which  can  only 
be  the  privilege  of  a  man  who  has  seen  strange 
sights  in  strange  regions. 

"What's  your  temperature?"  asked  Stoner. 

"Blimey,  it's  the  correct  thing  now,  but  it 
didn't  arf  go  up  and  down,"  said  Bill,  sitting 
down  on  the  dug-out  chair,  our  only  one  since 
a  shell  dropped  through  the  roof.  Some  days 


272  The  Red  Horizon 

before  B  Company  had  held  the  dug-out  and 
two  of  the  boys  were  killed.  "It's  no  fun  the 
'orspital,  I  can  tell  yer." 

"What  sort  of  disease  is  Pyraxis?"  asked 
Goliath. 

"It's  not  'arf  bad,  if  you've  got  it  bad,  and 
it's  not  good  when  you've  it  only  'arf  bad,"  said 
Bill,  adding,  "I  mean  that  if  I  'ad  it  bad  I 
would  get  off  to  blighty,  but  my  case  was  only 
a  light  one,  not  so  bad  as  Ted  Vittle.  'E's  not 
back  yet,  maybe  it's  a  trip  across  the  Channel 
for  'im.  'E  was  real  bad  when  'e  walked  down 
with  me  to  Mazingarbe.  I  was  rotten  too, 
couldn't  smoke.  It  was  sit  down  and  rest  for 
fifteen  minutes  then  walk  for  five.  Mazingarbe 
is  only  a  mile  and  an  'arf  from  the  dressing- 
station  and  it  took  us  three  hours  to  get  down; 
from  there  we  took  the  motor-ambulance  to  the 
clearing  hospital.  There  was  a  'ot  bath  there 
and  we  were  put  to  bed  in  a  big  'ouse,  blankets, 
plenty  of  them,  and  a  good  bed.  'Twas  a  grand 
place  to  kip  in.  Bad  as  I  was,  I  noticed  that." 

"No  stand-to  at  dawn?"  I  said. 

"Two  'ours  before  dawn  we  'ad  to  stand-to 
in  our  blankets,  matey,"  said  Bill.  "The 
Germans  began  to  shell  the  blurry  place  and 
'twas  up  to  us  to  'op  it.  We  went  dozens  of  us 


Souvenir  Hunters  273 

to  the  rear  in  a  'bus.  Shook  us!  We  were 
rattled  about  like  tins  on  cats'  tails  and  dumped 
down  at  another  'orsp  about  breakfast  time. 
My  tempratoor  was  up  more  than  ever  there; 
I  almost  burst  the  thremometur.  And  Ted! 
Blimey,  yer  should  'ave  seen  Ted!  Lost  to  the 
wide,  'e  was.  'E  could  'ardly  speak;  but  'e 
managed  to  give  me  his  mother's  address  and 
I  was  to  write  'ome  a  long  letter  to  'er  when  'e 
went  West. 

"Allowed  to  'ave  peace  in  that  place !  No  fear ; 
the  Boches  began  to  shell  us,  and  they  sent  over 
fifty  shells  in  'arf  an  'our.  All  troops  were  or- 
dered to  leave  the  town  and  we  went  with  the 
rest  to  a  'orsp  under  canvas  in  X . 

"A  nice  quiet  place  X was,  me  and  Ted 

was  along  with  two  others  in  a  bell-tent  and  'ere 
we  began  to  get  better.  Our  clothes  were  taken 
from  us,  all  my  stuff  and  two  packets  of  fags 
and  put  into  a  locker.  I  don't  know  what  I  was 
thinking  of  when  I  let  the  fags  go.  There  was 
one  feller  as  had  two  francs  in  his  trousers' 
pocket  when  'e  gave  'is  trousers  in  and  'e  got  the 
wrong  trousers  back.  'E  discovered  that  one  day 
when  'e  was  goin'  to  send  the  R.A.M.C.  orderly 
out  for  beer  for  all  'ands. 

"  'Twas  a  'ungry  place  X.     We  were  eight 


274  The  Red  Horizon 

days  in  bed  and  all  we  got  was  milk  and  once 
or  twice  a  hegg.  Damned  little  heggs  they  were ; 
they  must  'ave  been  laid  by  tomtits  in  a  'urry. 
I  got  into  trouble  once;  I  climbed  up  the  tent- 
pole  one  night  just  to  'ave  a  song  on  my  own, 
and  when  I  was  on  the  top  down  comes  the  whole 
thing  and  I  landed  on  Ted  Vittle's  bread  basket. 
'Is  tempratoor  was  up  to  a  'undred  and  one  point 
five  next  mornin'.  The  doctor  didn't  'arf  give 
me  a  look  when  'e  'card  about  me  bein'  up  the 
pole." 

"Was  he  a  nice  fellow,  the  doctor?"  I 
asked. 

"Not  'arf,  'e  wasn't,"  said  Bill.  "When  I 
got  into  my  old  uniform  'e  looked  'ard  at  my 
cap.  You  remember  it,  boys;  'twas  more  like 
a  ragman's  than  a  soldier  of  the  King's.  Then 
'e  arst  me :  '  'Ave  yer  seen  much  war  ?'  'Not 
'arf,  I  'aven't,'  I  told  him.  'I  thought  so,'  'e 
said,  'judgin'  by  yer  cap.'  And  'e  told  the  or- 
derly to  indent  me  for  a  brand  new  uniform. 
And  'e  gave  me  two  francs  to  get  a  drink  when 
I  was  leavinV 

"Soft-hearted  fellow,"  said  Goliath. 

"Was  he!"  remarked  Bill.  "Yer  should  be 
there  when  'e  came  in  one  mornin'." 

"  '  'Ow  d'ye  feel  ?'  he  asked  Ted  Vittle. 


Souvenir  Hunters  275 

"  'Not  fit  at  all,  sir/  says  Ted. 

"  Well,  carry  on/  said  the  doctor. 

"I  looked  at  Ted,  Ted  looked  at  me  and  'e 
tipped  me  the  wink. 

"  '  'Ow  d'ye  feel  ?'  said  the  doctor  to  me. 

"  'Not  fit  at  all/  I  answers. 

"  'Back  to  duties/  'e  said  and  my  jaw  dropped 
with  a  click  like  a  rifle  bolt.  'Twas  ten  minutes 
after  that  when  'e  gave  me  the  two  francs." 

"I  saw  Spud  'Iggles,  'im  that  was  wounded  at 
Givenchy;"  Bill  informed  us  after  he  had  lit  a 
fresh  cigarette. 

"OleSpud!" 

'"Ow'sSpud?" 

"Not  so  bad,  yer  know,"  said  Bill,  answering 
our  last  question.  "  'E's  got  a  job." 

"A  good  one?"  I  queried. 

"Not  'arf,"  Bill  said.  "  'E  goes  round  with  the 
motor  car  that  goes  to  places  where  soldiers  are 
billeted  and  gathers  up  all  the  ammunition,  bully 
beef  tins,  tins  of  biscuits  and  everything  worth 
anything  that's  left  behind — " 

"Bill  Teake.  Is  Bill  Teake  there?"  asked  a 
corporal  at  the  door  of  the  dug-out. 

"I'm  'ere,  old  Sawbones,"  said  Bill,  "wot  d'ye 
want  me  for?" 

"It's  your  turn  on  sentry,"  said  the  corporal. 


276  The  Red  Horizon 

"Oh!  blimey,  that's  done  it!"  grumbled  Bill. 
"I  feel  my  tempratoor  goin'  up  again.  It's  al- 
ways some  damn  fatigue  or  another  in  this 
cursed  place.  I  wonder  when  will  I  'ave  the 
luck  to  go  sick  again." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE   WOMEN   OF   FRANCE 

Lonely  and  still  the  village  lies, 

The  houses  asleep  and  the  blinds  all  drawn. 

The  road  is  straight  as  the  bullet  flies, 

And  the  east  is  touched  with  the  tinge  of  dawn. 

Shadowy  forms  creep  through  the  night, 
Where  the  coal-stacks  loom  in  their  ghostly  lair; 
A  sentry's  challenge,  a  spurt  of  light, 
A  scream  as  a  woman's  soul  takes  flight 
Through  the  quivering  morning  air. 

WE  had  been  working  all  morning  in  a 
cornfield  near  an  estaminet  on  the  La 
Bassee  Road.    The  morning  was  very 
hot  and  Pryor  and  I  felt  very  dry;  in  fact,  when 
our  corporal  stole  off  on  the  heels  of  a  sergeant 
who  stole  off,  we  stole  off  to  sin  with  our  superi- 
ors by  drinking  white  wine  in  an  estaminet  by 
the  La  Bassee  Road. 

"This  is  not  the  place  to  dig  trenches,"  said 
the  sergeant  when  we  entered. 

"We're  just  going  to  draw  out  the  plans  of 
the  new  traverse,"  Pryor  explained.  "It  is  to 
be  made  on  a  new  principle,  and  a  rifleman  on 

sentry-go  can  sleep  there  and  get  wind  of  the 

277 


278  The  Red  Horizon 

approach  of  a  sergeant  by  the  vibration  of  stripes 
rubbing  against  the  walls  of  the  trench." 

"Every  man  in  the  battalion  must  not  be  in 
here,"  said  the  sergeant  looking  at  the  khaki 
crowd  and  the  full  glasses.  "I  can't  allow  it  and 
the  back  room  empty. 

Pryor  and  I  took  the  hint  and  went  to  the  low 
roofed  room  in  the  rear,  where  we  found  two 
persons,  a  woman  and  a  man.  The  woman  was 
sweating  over  a  stove,  frying  cutlets  and  the  man 
was  sitting  on  the  floor  peeling  potatoes  into  a 
large  bucket.  He  was  a  thick-set  lump  of  a  fel- 
low, with  long,  hairy  arms,  dark  heavy  eyebrows 
set  firm  over  sharp,  inquisitive  eyes,  a  snub  nose, 
and  a  long  scar  stretching  from  the  butt  of  the 
left  ear  up  to  the  cheek-bone.  He  wore  a  non- 
descript pair  of  loose  baggy  trousers,  a  fragment 
of  a  shirt  and  a  pair  of  bedroom  slippers.  He 
peeled  the  potatoes  with  a  knife,  a  long  rapier- 
like  instrument  which  he  handled  with  marvel- 
lous dexterity. 

"Digging  trenches?"  he  asked,  hurling  a  po- 
tato into  the  bucket. 

I  understand  French  spoken  slowly;  Pryor, 
who  was  educated  in  Paris,  speaks  French  and  he 
told  the  potato-peeler  that  we  had  been  at  work 
since  five  o'clock  that  morning. 


The  Women  of  France         279 

"The  Germans  will  never  get  back  here  again 
unless  as  prisoners." 

"They  might  thrust  us  back;  one  never 
knows,"  said  Pryor. 

"Thrust  us  back!  Never!"  The  potato  swept 
into  the  bucket  with  a  whizz  like  a  spent  bullet. 
"Their  day  has  come!  Why?  Because  they're 
beaten,  our  75  has  beaten  them.  That's  it:  the 
75,  the  little  love.  Pip!  pip!  pip!  pip!  Four  lit- 
tle imps  in  the  air  one  behind  the  other.  Nothing 
can  stand  them.  Bomb!  one  lands  in  the  Ger- 
man trench.  Plusieiws  marts,  plusieurs  blesses. 
Run!  Some  go  right,  some  left.  The  second 
shot  lands  on  the  right,  the  third  on  the  left, 
the  fourth  finishes  the  job.  The  dead  are  many ; 
other  guns  are  good,  but  none  so  good  as  the 

75-" 

"What  about  the  gun  that  sent  this  over?" 

Pryor,  as  he  spoke,  pointed  at  the  percussion 
cap  of  one  of  the  gigantic  shells  with  which  the 
Germans  raked  La  Bassee  Road  in  the  early 
stages  of  the  war,  what  time  the  enemy's  enthu- 
siasm for  destruction  had  not  the  nice  discrimi- 
nation that  permeates  it  now.  A  light  shrapnel 
shell  is  more  deadly  to  a  marching  platoon  than 
the  biggest  "Jack  Johnson."  The  shell  relic  be- 
fore us,  the  remnant  of  a  mammoth  Krupp  de- 


280  The  Red  Horizon 

sign,  was  cast  off  by  a  shell  in  the  field  heavy 
with  ripening  corn  and  rye,  opposite  the  door- 
way. When  peace  breaks  out,  and  holidays  to 
the  scene  of  the  great  war  become  fashionable, 
the  woman  of  the  estaminet  is  going  to  sell  the 
percussion  cap  to  the  highest  bidder.  There  are 
many  mementos  of  the  great  fight  awaiting  the 
tourists  who  come  this  way  with  a  long  purse, 
"apres  la  guerre."  At  present  a  needy  urchin 
will  sell  the  nose-cap  of  a  shell,  which  has  killed 
multitudes  of  men  and  horses,  for  a  few  sous. 
Officers,  going  home  on  leave,  deal  largely  with 
needy  French  urchins  who  live  near  the  fir- 
ing line. 

"A  great  gun,  the  one  that  sent  that,"  said  the 
Frenchman,  digging  the  clay  from  the  eye  of  a 
potato  and  looking  at  the  percussion-cap  which 
lay  on  the  mantelpiece  under  a  picture  of  the 
Virgin  and  Child.  "But  compared  with  the  75, 
it  is  nothing;  no  good.  The  big  shell  comes 
boom !  It's  in  no  hurry.  You  hear  it  and  you're 
into  your  dug-out  before  it  arrives.  It  is  like 
thunder,  which  you  hear  and  you're  in  shelter 
when  the  rain  comes.  But  the  75,  it  is  lightning. 
It  comes  silently,  it's  quicker  than  its  own 
sound." 

"Do  you  work  here?"  asked  Pryor. 


The  Women  of  France        281 

"I  work  here,"  said  the  potato-peeler. 

"In  a  coal-mine?" 

"Not  in  a  coal-mine,"  was  the  answer.  "I 
peel  potatoes." 

"Always?" 

"Sometimes,"  said  the  man.  "I'm  out  from 
the  trenches  on  leave  for  seven  days.  First  time 
since  last  August.  Got  back  from  Souchez  to- 
day." 

"Oh!"  I  ejaculated. 

"Oh!"  said  Pryor.    "Seen  some  fighting?" 

"Not  much,"  said  the  man,  "not  too  much." 
His  eyes  lit  up  as  with  fire  and  he  sent  a  po- 
tato stripped  clean  of  its  jacket  up  to  the  roof 
but  with  such  precision  that  it  dropped  down 
straight  into  the  bucket.  "First  we  went  south 
and  the  Germans  came  across  up  north.  'Twas 
turn  about  and  up  like  mad;  perched  on  taxis, 
limbers,  ambulance  waggons,  anything.  We  got 
into  battle  near  Paris.  The  Boches  came  in  clus- 
ters, they  covered  the  ground  like  flies  on  the 
dead  at  Souchez.  The  75*5  came  into  work  there. 
'Twas  wonderful.  Pip !  pip !  pip !  pip !  Men  were 
cut  down,  wiped  out  in  hundreds.  When  the 
gun  was  useless — guns  had  short  lives  and  glori- 
ous lives  there — a  new  one  came  into  play  and 


282  The  Red  Horizon 

killed,  killed,  until  it  could  stand  the  strain  no 
longer." 

"Much  hand-to-hand  fighting?"  asked 
Pryor. 

"The  bayonet!  Yes!"  The  potato-peeler 
thrust  his  knife  through  a  potato  and  slit  it  in 
two.  "The  Germans  said  'Eugh!  Eugh!  Eugh!' 
when  we  went  for  them  like  this."  He  made  sev- 
eral vicious  prods  at  an  imaginary  enemy.  "And 
we  cut  them  down." 

He  paused  as  if  at  a  loss  for  words,  and  sent 
his  knife  whirling  into  the  air  where  it  spun 
at  an  alarming  rate.  I  edged  my  chair  nearer 
the  door,  but  the  potato-peeler,  suddenly 
standing  upright,  caught  the  weapon  by  the 
haft  as  it  circled  and  bent  to  lift  a  fresh 
potato. 

"What  is  that  for?"  asked  Pryor,  pointing  to 
a  sword  wreathed  in  a  garland  of  flowers,  tat- 
tooed on  the  man's  arm. 

"The  rapier,"  said  the  potato-peeler.  "I'm  a 
fencer,  a  master- fencer;  fenced  in  Paris  and  sev- 
eral places." 

The  woman  of  the  house,  the  man's  wife,  had 
been  buzzing  round  like  a  bee,  droning  out  in 
an  incoherent  voice  as  she  served  the  customers. 
Now  she  came  up  to  the  master-fencer,  looked 


The  Women  of  France         283 

at  him  in  the  face  for  a  second,  and  then  looked 
at  the  bucket.  The  sweat  oozed  from  her  face 
like  water  from  a  sponge. 

"Hurry,  and  get  the  work  done,"  she  said  to 
her  husband,  then  she  turned  to  us.  "You're 
keeping  him  from  work,"  she  stuttered,  "you  two, 
chattering  like  parrots.  Allez-vous  en!  Allez- 
vous  en!" 

We  left  the  house  of  the  potato-peeler  and 
returned  to  our  digging.  The  women  of  France 
are  indeed  wonderful. 

That  evening  Bill  came  up  to  me  as  I  was  sit- 
ting on  the  banquette.  In  his  hand  was  an  Eng- 
lish paper  that  I  had  just  been  reading  and  in 
his  eye  was  wrath. 

"The  'ole  geeser's  fyce  is  in  this  'ere  thing 
again,"  he  said  scornfully.  "Blimy!  it's  like  the 
bad  weather,  it's  everywhere." 

"Whose  face  do  you  refer  to?"  I  asked  my 
friend. 

"This  Jimaee,"  was  the  answer  and  Bill 
pointed  to  the  photo  of  a  well-known  society  lady 
who  was  shown  in  the  act  of  escorting  a  wounded 
soldier  along  a  broad  avenue  of  trees  that  ta- 
pered away  to  a  point  where  an  English  coun- 
try mansion  showed  like  a  doll's  house  in  the 
distance.  "Every  pyper  I  open  she's  in  it;  if 


284  The  Red  Horizon 

she's  not  makin'  socks  for  poor  Tommies  at  the 
front,  she's  tyin'  bandages  on  wounded  Tom- 
mies at  'ome." 

"There's  nothing  wrong  in  that,"  I  said,  not- 
ing the  sarcasm  in  Bill's  voice. 

"S'pose  its  natural  for  'er  to  let  everybody 
know  what  she  does,  like  a  'en  that  lays  a  negg," 
my  mate  answered.  "She's  on  this  pyper  or 
that  pyper  every  day.  She's  learnin'  nursin'  one 
day,  learnin'  to  drive  an  ambulance  the  next  day, 
she  doesn't  carry  a  powder  puff  in  'er  vanity  bag 
at  present " 

"Who  said  so?"  I  asked. 

"It's  'ere  in  black  and  white,"  said  Bill.  "  'Er 
vanity  bag  'as  given  place  to  a  respirator,  an' 
instead  of  a  powder  puff  she  now  carries  an  an- 
tiskeptic  bandage.  It  makes  me  sick;  it's  all  the 
same  with  women  in  England.  'Ere's  another 
picture  called  'Bathin'  as  usual.'  A  dozen  of 
girls  out  in  the  sea  (jolly  good  legs  some  of  'em 
'as,  too)  'avin'  a  bit  of  a  frisky.  Listen  what  it 
says :  'Despite  the  trying  times  the  English  girls 

are  keepin'  a  brave  'eart '  Oh !  'ang  it,  Pat, 

they're  nothin'  to  the  French  girls,  them  birds 
at  'ome." 

"What  about  that  girl  you  knew  at  St.  Al- 


The  Women  of  France         285 

bans?"  I  asked.  "You  remember  how  she  slid 
down  the  banisters  and  made  toffee." 

"She  wasn't  no  class,  you  know,"  said  Bill. 

"She  never  answered  the  verse  you  sent  from 
Givenchy,  I  suppose,"  I  remarked. 

"It's  not  that " 

"Did  she  answer  your  letter  saying  she  recip- 
rocated your  sentiments  ?"  I  asked. 

"Reshiperate  your  grandmother,  Pat!"  roared 
Bill.  "Nark  that  language,  I  say.  Speak  that 
I  can  understand  you.  Wait  a  minute  till  I 
reshiperate  that,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed 
pressing  a  charge  into  his  rifle  magazine  and 
curving  over  the  parapet.  He  sent  five 
shots  in  the  direction  from  which  he  sup- 
posed the  sniper  who  had  been  potting  at  us 
all  day,  was  firing.  Then  he  returned  to  his  ar- 
gument. 

"You've  seen  that  bird  at  the  farm  in  Mazing- 
arbe?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  replied.  "Pryor  said  that  her  ankles 
were  abnormally  thick." 

"Pryor's  a  fool,"  Bill  exclaimed. 

"But  they  really  looked  thick " 

"You're  a  bigger  fool  than  'im !" 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  fallen  in  love  with 
the  girl,"  I  said.  "How  did  it  happen?" 


286  The  Red  Horizon 

"Blimey,  I'm  not  in  love,"  said  my  mate,  "but 
I  like  a  girl  with  a  good  'eart  'Twas  out  in 
the  horchard  in  the  farm  I  first  met  'er.  I  was 
out  pullin'  apples,  pinchin'  them  if  you  like  to 
say  so,  and  I  was  shakin'  the  apples  from  the 
branches.  I  had  to  keep  my  eyes  on  the  farm 
to  see  that  nobody  seen  me  while  I  shook.  It 
takes  a  devil  of  a  lot  of  strength  to  rumble  ap- 
ples off  a  tree  when  you're  shakin'  a  trunk  that's 
stouter  than  the  bread  basket  of  a  Bow  butcher. 
All  at  once  I  saw  the  girl  of  the  farm  comin' 
runnin'  at  me  with  a  stick.  Round  to  the  other 
side  of  the  tree  I  ran  like  lightnin',  and 
after  me  she  comes.  Then  round  to  the  other 
side  went  I " 

"Which  side?"  I  asked. 

"The  side  she  wasn't  on,"  said  Bill.  "After 
me  she  came  and  round  to  her  side  I  'opped " 

"Who  was  on  the  other  side  now?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"I  took  good  care  that  she  was  always  on 
the  other  side  until  I  saw  what  she  was  up  to 
with  the  stick,"  said  Bill.  "But  d'yer  know 
what  the  stick  was  for?  'Twas  to  help  me  to 
bring  down  the  apples.  Savve.  They're  great 
women,  the  women  of  France,"  concluded  my 
mate. 


The  Women  of  France         287 

The  women  of  France !  what  heroism  and  for- 
titude animates  them  in  every  shell-shattered  vil- 
lage from  Souchez  to  the  sea!  What  labours 
they  do  in  the  fields  between  the  foothills  of  the 

Pyrenees  and  the  Church  of  ,  where  the 

woman  nearest  the  German  lines  sells  rum  under 
the  ruined  altar !  The  plough  and  sickle  are  sym- 
bols of  peace  and  power  in  the  hands  of  the 
women  of  France  in  a  land  where  men  destroy 
and  women  build.  The  young  girls  of  the  hun- 
dred and  one  villages  which  fringe  the  line  of 
destruction,  proceed  with  their  day's  work  under 
shell  fire,  calm  as  if  death  did  not  wait  ready 
to  pounce  on  them  at  every  corner. 

I  have  seen  a  woman  in  one  place  take  her 
white  horse  from  the  pasture  when  shells  were 
falling  in  the  field  and  lead  the  animal  out  again 
when  the  row  was  over;  two  of  her  neighbours 
were  killed  in  the  same  field  the  day  before.  One 
of  our  men  spoke  to  her  and  pointed  out  that 
the  action  was  fraught  with  danger.  "I  am  con- 
vinced of  that,"  she  replied.  "It  is  madness  to 
remain  here,"  she  was  told,  and  she  asked 
"Where  can  I  go  to?"  During  the  winter  the 
French  occupied  the  trenches  nearer  her  home; 
her  husband  fought  there,  but  the  French  have 
gone  further  south  now  and  our  men  occupy  their 


288  The  Red  Horizon 

place  in  dug-out  and  trench,  but  not  in  the  wom- 
an's heart.  "The  English  soldiers  have  come 
and  my  husband  had  to  go  away,"  she  says.  "He 
went  south  beyond  Souchez,  and  now  he's 
dead." 

The  woman,  we  learned,  used  to  visit  her  hus- 
band in  his  dug-out  and  bring  him  coffee  for 
breakfast  and  soup  for  dinner;  this  in  winter 
when  the  slush  in  the  trenches  reached  the  waist 
and  when  soldiers  were  carried  out  daily  suffer- 
ing from  frostbite. 

A  woman  sells  cafe  noir  near  Cuinchy  Brew- 
ery in  a  jumble  of  bricks  that  was  once  her  home. 
Once  it  was  cafe  au  lait  and  it  cost  four  sous  a 
cup;  she  only  charges  three  sous  now  since  her 
cow  got  shot  in  the  stomach  outside  her  ram- 
shackle estaminet.  Along  with  a  few  mates  I 
was  in  the  place  two  months  ago  and  a  bullet 
entered  the  door  and  smashed  the  coffee  pot ;  the 
woman  now  makes  coffee  in  a  biscuit  tin. 

The  road  from  our  billet  to  the  firing  line  is 
as  uncomfortable  as  a  road  under  shell  fire  can 
be,  but  what  time  we  went  that  way  nightly  as 
working  parties,  we  met  scores  of  women  carry- 
ing furniture  away  from  a  deserted  village  be- 
hind the  trenches.  The  French  military  authori- 
ties forbade  civilians  to  live  there  and  drove  them 


The  Women  of  France         289 

back  to  villages  that  were  free  from  danger. 
But  nightly  they  came  back,  contrary  to  or- 
ders, and  carried  away  property  to  their  tem- 
porary homes.  Sometimes,  I  suppose  they 
took  goods  that  were  not  entirely  their  own, 
but  at  what  risk !  One  or  two  got  killed  nightly 
and  many  were  wounded.  However,  they  still 
persisted  in  coming  back  and  carrying  away 
beds,  tables,  mirrors  and  chairs  in  all  sorts 
of  queer  conveyances,  barrows,  perambulators 
and  light  spring-carts  drawn  by  strong  intelli- 
gent dogs. 

"They    are    great    women,    the    women    of 
France,"  as  Bill  Teake  remarks. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

IN  THE  WATCHES  OF  THE  NIGHT 

"What  do  you  do  with  your  rifle,  son  ?"    I  clean  it  every  day, 
And  rub  it  with  an  oily  rag  to  keep  the  rust  away; 
I  slope,  present  and  port  the  thing  when  sweating  on  parade. 
I  strop  my  razor  on  the  sling;  the  bayonet  stand  is  made 
For  me  to  hang  my  mirror  on.    I  often  use  it,  too, 
As  handle  for  the  dixie,  sir,  and  lug  around  the  stew. 
"But  did  you  ever  fire  it,  son?"    Just  once,  but  never  more. 
I  fired  it  at  a  German  trench,  and  when  my  work  was  o'er 
The  sergeant  down  the  barrel  glanced,  and  looked  at  me 

and  said, 
"Your  hipe  is  dirty,  sloppy  Jim;  an  extra  hour's  parade!" 

THE  hour  was  midnight.  Over  me  and 
about  me  was  the  wonderful  French 
summer  night;  the  darkness,  blue  and 
transparent,  splashed  with  starshells,  hung 
around  me  and  gathered  itself  into  a  dark  streak 
on  the  floor  of  the  trench  beneath  the  banquette 
on  which  I  stood.  Away  on  my  right  were  the 
Hills  of  Lorette,  Souchez,  and  the  Labyrinth 
where  big  guns  eternally  spoke,  and  where  the 
searchlights  now  touched  the  heights  with  long 
tremulous  white  arms.  To  my  left  the  starshells 
rose  and  fell  in  brilliant  riot  above  the  battle- 
line  that  disfigured  the  green  meadows  between 

290 


In  the  Watches  of  the  Night    291 

my  trench  and  Ypres,  and  out  on  my  front  a 
thousand  yards  away  were  the  German  trenches 
with  the  dead  wasting  to  clay  amid  the  poppy- 
flowers  in  the  spaces  between.  The  dug-out,  in 
which  my  mates  rested  and  dreamt,  lay  silent  in 
the  dun  shadows  of  the  parados. 

Suddenly  a  candle  was  lit  inside  the  door,  and 
I  could  see  our  corporal  throw  aside  the  over- 
coat that  served  as  blanket  and  place  the  tip  of 
a  cigarette  against  the  spluttering  flame.  Bill 
slept  beside  the  corporal's  bed,  his  head  on  a  bully 
beef  tin,  and  one  naked  arm,  sunned  and  soiled 
to  a  khaki  tint,  lying  slack  along  the  earthen 
floor.  The  corporal  came  out  puffing  little  curls 
of  smoke  into  the  night  air. 

"Quiet?"  he  asked. 

"Dull  enough,  here,"  I  answered.  "But 
there's  no  peace  up  by  Souchez." 

"So  I  can  hear,"  he  answered,  flicking  the  ash 
from  his  cigarette  and  gazing  towards  the 
hills  where  the  artillery  duel  was  raging. 
"Have  the  working  parties  come  up  yet?"  he 
asked. 

"Not  yet,"  I  answered,  "but  I  think  I  hear  men 
coming  now." 

They  came  along  the  trench,  about  two  hun- 
dred strong,  engineers  and  infantry,  men  car- 


292  The  Red  Horizon 

rying  rifles,  spades,  coils  of  barbed  wire,  wooden 
supports,  &c.  They  were  going  out  digging  on 
a  new  sap  and  putting  up  fresh  wire  entangle- 
ments. This  work,  when  finished,  would  bring 
our  fire  trench  three  hundred  yards  nearer  the 
enemy.  Needless  to  say,  the  Germans  were  en- 
gaged on  similar  work,  and  they  were  digging 
out  towards  our  lines. 

The  working  party  came  to  a  halt;  and  one 
of  them  sat  down  on  the  banquette  at  my  feet, 
asked  for  a  match  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"You're  in  the  village  at  the  rear?"  I  said. 

"We're  reserves  there,"  he  answered.  "It's 
always  working-parties;  at  night  and  at  day. 
Sweeping  gutters  and  picking  papers  and  bits  of 
stew  from  the  street.  Is  it  quiet  here?" 

"Very  quiet,"  I  answered.  "We've  only  had 
five  killed  and  nine  wounded  in  six  days.  How 
is  your  regiment  getting  along?" 

"Oh,  not  so  bad,"  said  the  man;  "some  go 
west  at  times,  but  it's  what  one  has  to  expect  out 
here." 

The  working  party  were  edging  off,  and  some 
of  the  men  were  clambering  over  the  parapet. 

"Hi!  Ginger!"  someone  said  in  a  loud  whis- 
per, "Ginger  Weeson;  come  along  at 
once !" 


In  the  Watches  of  the  Night    293 

The  man  on  the  banquette  got  to  his  feet,  put 
out  his  cigarette  and  placed  the  fag-end  in  his 
cartridge  pouch.  He  would  smoke  this  when 
he  returned;  on  the  neutral  ground  between  the 
lines  a  lighted  cigarette  would  mean  death  to 
the  smoker.  I  gave  Ginger  Weeson  a  leg  over 
the  parapet  and  handed  him  his  spade  when  he 
got  to  the  other  side.  My  hour  on  sentry-go  was 
now  up  and  I  went  into  my  dug-out  and  was  im- 
mediately asleep. 

I  was  called  again  at  one,  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  later. 

"What's  up?"  I  asked  the  corporal  who  wak- 
ened me. 

"Oh,  there's  a  party  going  down  to  the  rear 
for  rations,"  I  was  told.  "So  you've  got  to  take 
up  sentry-go  till  stand-to;  that'll  be  for  an  hour 
or  so.  You're  better  out  in  the  air  now  for  its 
beginning  to  stink  everywhere,  but  the  dug-out 
is  the  worst  place  of  all." 

So  saying,  the  corporal  entered  the  dug-out 
and  stretched  himself  on  the  floor;  he  was  go- 
ing to  have  a  sleep  despite  his  mean  opinion  of 
the  shelter. 

The  stench  gathers  itself  in  the  early  morn- 
ing; in  that  chill  hour  which  precedes  the  dawn 
one  can  almost  see  the  smell  ooze  from  the  earth 


294  The  Red  Horizon 

of  the  firing  line.  It  is  penetrating,  sharp,  and 
well-nigh  tangible,  the  odour  of  herbs,  flowers, 
and  the  dawn  mixed  with  the  stench  of  rotting 
meat  and  of  the  dead.  You  can  taste  it  as  it 
enters  your  mouth  and  nostrils,  it  comes  in 
slowly,  you  feel  it  crawl  up  your  nose  and  sink 
with  a  nauseous  slowness  do\vn  the  back  of  the 
throat  through  the  windpipe  and  into  the 
stomach. 

I  leant  my  arms  on  the  sandbags  and  looked 
across  the  field;  I  fancied  I  could  see  men  mov- 
ing in  the  darkness,  but  when  the  starshells  went 
up  there  was  no  sign  of  movement  out  by  the 
web  of  barbed-wire  entanglements.  The  new  sap 
with  its  bags  of  earth  stretched  out  chalky  white 
towards  the  enemy;  the  sap  was  not  more  than 
three  feet  deep  yet,  it  afforded  very  little  pro- 
tection from  fire.  Suddenly  rising  eerie  from 
the  space  between  the  lines,  I  heard  a  cry.  A 
harrowing  "Oh!"  wrung  from  a  tortured  soul, 
then  a  second  "Oh!"  ear-splitting,  deafening. 
Something  must  have  happened,  one  of  the  work- 
ing party  was  hit  I  knew.  A  third  "Oh!"  fol- 
lowed, weak  it  was  and  infantile,  then  intense 
silence  wrapped  up  everything  as  in  a  cloak.  But 
only  for  a  moment.  The  enemy  must  have  heard 
the  cry  for  a  dozen  starshells  shot  towards 


In  the  Watches  of  the  Night     295 

us  and  frittered  away  in  sparks  by  our 
barbed-wire  entanglements.  There  followed  a 
second  of  darkness  and  then  an  explosion 
right  over  the  sap.  The  enemy  were  firing  shrap- 
nel shells  on  the  working  party.  Three,  four 
shells  exploded  simultaneously  out  in  front.  I 
saw  dark  forms  rise  up  and  come  rushing  into 
shelter.  There  was  a  crunching,  a  stumbling  and 
a  gasping  as  if  for  air.  Boots  struck  against 
the  barbed  entanglements,  and  like  trodden 
mice,  the  wires  squeaked  in  protest.  I  saw 
a  man,  outlined  in  black  against  the  glow  of 
a  starshell,  struggling  madly  as  he  endeav- 
oured to  loose  his  clothing  from  the  barbs 
on  which  it  caught.  There  was  a  ripping  and 
tearing  of  tunics  and  trousers.  ...  A  shell 
burst  over  the  men  again  and  I  saw  two  fall; 
one  got  up  and  clung  to  the  arm  of  a  mate,  the 
other  man  crawled  on  his  belly  towards  the 
parapet. 

In  their  haste  they  fell  over  the  parapet  into 
the  trench,  several  of  them.  Many  had  gone 
back  by  the  sap,  I  could  see  them  racing  along 
crouching  as  they  ran.  Out  in  front  several 
forms  were  bending  over  the  ground  attending 
to  the  wounded.  From  my  left  the  message 


296  The  Red  Horizon 

came  "Stretcher-bearers  at  the  double."  And  I 
passed  it  along. 

Two  men  who  had  scrambled  over  the  parapet 
were  sitting  on  my  banquette,  one  with  a 
scratched  forehead,  the  other  with  a  bleeding 
finger.  Their  mates  were  attending  to  them 
binding  up  the  wounds. 

"Many  hurt?"  I  asked. 

"A  lot  'ave  copped  a  packet,"  said  the  man 
with  the  bleeding  finger. 

"We  never  'card  the  blurry  things  come,  did 
we  ?"  he  asked  his  mates. 

"Never  'card  nothin',  we  didn't  till  the  thing 
burst  over  us,"  said  a  voice  from  the  trench. 
"I  was  busy  with  Ginger " 

"Ginger  Weeson?"  I  enquired. 

"That's  'im,"  was  the  reply.  "Did  yer  'ear 
'im  yell?  Course  yer  did;  ye'd  'ave  'card  'im 
over  at  La  Bassee." 

"What  happened  to  him  ?"  I  asked. 

"A  bullet  through  'is  belly,"  said  the  voice. 
"When  'e  roared  I  put  my  'and  on  'is  mouth 
and  'e  gave  me  such  a  punch.  I  was  nearly 
angry,  and  'im  in  orful  pain.  Pore  Ginger! 
Not  many  get  better  from  a  wound  like  his 


one." 


Their  wounds  dressed,  the  men  went  away; 


In  the  Watches  of  the  Night    297 

others  came  by  carrying  out  the  stricken;  many 
had  fractured  limbs,  one  was  struck  on  the  shoul- 
der, another  in  the  leg  and  one  I  noticed  had  sev- 
eral teeth  knocked  away. 

The  working-party  had  one  killed  and  fifty- 
nine  wounded  in  the  morning's  work;  some  of 
the  wounded,  amongst  them  Ginger  Weeson, 
died  in  hospital. 

The  ration-party  came  back  at  two  o'clock  ju- 
bilant. The  post  arrived  when  the  men  were 
in  the  village  and  many  bulky  parcels  came  in 
for  us.  Meals  are  a  treat  when  parcels  are  bulky. 
We  would  have  a  fine  breakfast. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

ROMANCE 

The  young  recruit  is  apt  to  think 

Of  war  as  a  romance; 
But  he'll  find  its  boots  and  bayonets 

When  he's  somewhere  out  in  France. 

WHEN  the  young  soldier  takes  the  long, 
poplar-lined  road  from his  heart 

is  stirred  with  the  romance  of  his 
mission.  It  is  morning  and  he  is  bound  for 
the  trenches ;  the  early  sunshine  is  tangled  in  the 
branches,  and  silvery  gossamer,  beaded  with  iri- 
descent jewels  of  dew,  hang  fairylike  from  the 
green  leaves.  Birds  are  singing,  crickets  are 
thridding  in  the  grass  and  the  air  is  full  of  the 
minute  clamouring,  murmuring  and  infinitesimal 
shouting  of  little  living  things.  Cool,  mysterious 
shadows  are  cast  like  intricate  black  lace  upon  the 
roadway,  light  is  reflected  from  the  cobbles  in 
the  open  spaces,  and  on,  on,  ever  so  far  on,  the 
white  road  runs  straight  as  an  arrow  into  the 
land  of  mystery,  the  Unknown. 

In  front  is  the  fighting  line,  where  trench  after 

trench,    wayward    as    rivers,    wind    discreetly 

298 


Romance  299 

through  meadow  and  village.  By  day  you  can 
mark  it  by  whirling  lyddite  fumes  rising  from 
the  ground,  and  puffs  of  smoke  curling  in  the 
air;  at  night  it  is  a  flare  of  star-shells  and  lurid 
flamed  explosions  colouring  the  sky  line  with 
the  lights  of  death. 

Under  the  moon  and  stars,  the  line  of  battle, 
seen  from  a  distance,  is  a  red  horizon,  ominous 
and  threatening,  fringing  a  land  of  broken 
homes,  ruined  villages,  and  blazing  funeral  pyres. 
There  the  mirth  of  yesteryear  lives  only  in  a  sol- 
dier's dreams,  and  the  harvest  of  last  autumn 
rots  with  withering  men  on  the  field  of  death  and 
decay. 

Nature  is  busy  through  it  all,  the  grasses  grow 
green  over  the  dead,  and  poppies  fringe  the  para- 
pets where  the  bayonets  glisten,  the  skylarks  sing 
their  songs  at  dawn  between  the  lines,  the  fogs 
chuckle  in  the  ponds  at  dusk,  the  grasshoppers 
chirrup  in  the  dells  where  the  wild  iris,  jewel- 
starred,  bends  mournfully  to  the  breezes  of 
night.  In  it  all,  the  watching,  the  waiting,  and 
the  warring,  is  the  mystery,  the  enchantment^ 
and  the  glamour  of  romance;  and  romance  is 
dear  to  the  heart  of  the  young  soldier.  I  have 
looked  towards  the  horizon  when  the  sky  was 
red-rimmed  with  the  lingering  sunset  of  mid- 


3OO  The  Red  Horizon 

summer  and  seen  the  artillery  rip  the  heavens 
with  spears  of  flame,  seen  the  starshells  burst 
into  fire  and  drop  showers  of  slittering  sparks 
to  earth,  seen  the  pale  mists  of  evening  rise  over 
black,  mysterious  villages,  woods,  houses,  gun- 
emplacements,  and  flat  meadows,  blue  in  the  eve- 
ning haze. 

Aeroplanes  flew  in  the  air,  little  brown  specks, 
heeling  at  times  and  catching  the  sheen  of  the 
setting  sun,  when  they  glimmered  like  flame. 
Above,  about,  and  beneath  them  were  the  white 
and  dun  wreaths  of  smoke  curling  and  stream- 
ing across  the  face  of  heaven,  the  smoke  of  burst- 
ing explosives  sent  from  earth  to  cripple  the  fliers 
in  mid-air. 

Gazing  on  the  battle  struggle  with  all  its  empty 
passion  and  deadly  hatred,  I  thought  of  the  wor- 
shipper of  old  who  looked  on  the  face  of  God, 
and,  seeing  His  face,  died.  And  the  scene  before 
me,  like  the  Countenance  of  the  Creator,  was 
not  good  for  mortal  eye. 

He  who  has  known  and  felt  the  romance  of  the 
long  night  marches  can  never  forget  it.  The 
departure  from  barn  billets  when  the  blue  eve- 
ning sky  fades  into  palest  saffron,  and  the 
drowsy  ringing  of  church  bells  in  the  neighbour- 
ing village  calling  the  worshippers  to  evensong; 


Romance  301 

the  singing  of  the  men  who  swing  away  accou- 
tred in  the  harness  of  war;  the  lights  of  little 
white  houses  beaming  into  the  darkness;  the 
stars  stealing  silently  out  in  the  hazy  bowl  of 
the  sky;  the  trees  by  the  roadside  standing  stiff 
and  stark  in  the  twilight  as  if  listening  and  wait- 
ing for  something  to  take  place;  the  soft,  warm 
night,  half  moonlight  and  half  mist,  settling  over 
mining  villages  with  their  chimneys,  railways, 
signal  lights,  slag-heaps,  rattling  engines  and 
dusty  trucks. 

There  is  a  quicker  throbbing  of  the  heart  when 
the  men  arrive  at  the  crest  of  the  hill,  well  known 
to  all,  but  presenting  fresh  aspects  every  time 
the  soldier  reaches  its  summit,  that  overlooks  the 
firing  line. 

Ahead,  the  star-shells,  constellations  of  green, 
electric  white,  and  blue,  light  the  scenes  of  war. 
From  the  ridge  of  the  hill,  downwards  towards 
an  illimitable  plain,  the  road  takes  its  way 
through  a  ghost-world  of  ruined  homes  where 
dark  and  ragged  masses  of  broken  roof  and  wall 
stand  out  in  blurred  outlines  against  indistinct 
and  formless  backgrounds. 

A  gun  is  belching  forth  murder  and  sudden 
death  from  an  emplacement  on  the  right;  in  a 
spinney  on  the  left  a  battery  is  noisy  and  the 


3O2  The  Red  Horizon 

flashes  from  there  light  up  the  cluster  of  trees 
that  stand  huddled  together  as  if  for  warmth. 
Vehicles  of  war  lumber  along  the  road,  field- 
kitchens,  gun-limbers,  water-carts,  motor-ambu- 
lances, and  Red  Cross  waggons.  Men  march 
towards  us,  men  in  brown,  bearing  rifles  and 
swords,  and  pass  us  in  the  night.  A  shell 
bursts  near,  and  there  is  a  sound  as  of  a 
handful  of  peas  being  violently  flung  to  the 
ground. 

For  the  night  we  stop  in  a  village  where  the 
branches  of  the  trees  are  shrapnelled  clean  of 
their  leaves,  and  where  all  the  rafters  of  the 
houses  are  bared  of  their  covering  of  red  tiles. 
A  wind  may  rise  when  you're  dropping  off  to 
sleep  on  the  stone  flags  of  a  cellar,  and  then  you 
can  hear  the  door  of  the  house  and  of  nearly 
every  house  in  the  place  creaking  on  its  hinges. 
The  breeze  catches  the  telephone  wires  which  run 
from  the  artillery  at  rear  to  their  observation 
stations,  and  the  wires  sing  like  light  shells  trav- 
elling through  space. 

At  dawn  you  waken  to  the  sound  of  anti-air- 
craft guns  firing  at  aeroplanes  which  they  never 
bring  down.  The  bullets,  falling  back  from  ex- 
ploding shells,  swish  to  the  earth  with  a  sound 
like  burning  magnesium  wires  and  split  a  tile 


Romance  303 

if  any  is  left,  or  crack  a  skull  if  any  is  in  the 
way,  with  the  neatest  despatch.  It  is  wise  to  re- 
main in  shelter  until  the  row  is  over. 

Outside,  the  birds  are  merry  on  the  roofs;  you 
can  hear  them  sing  defiantly  at  the  lone  cat  that 
watches  them  from  the  grassy  spot  which  was 
once  a  street.  Spiders'  webs  hang  over  the  door- 
ways, many  flies  have  come  to  an  untimely  end 
in  the  glistening  snares,  poor  little  black,  helpless 
things.  Here  and  there  lies  a  broken  crucifix  and 
a  torn  picture  of  the  Holy  Family,  the  shrines 
that  once  stood  at  the  street  corners  are  shapeless 
heaps  of  dust  and  weeds  and  the  village  church 
is  in  ruins. 

No  man  is  allowed  to  walk  in  the  open  by  day ; 
a  German  observation  balloon,  a  big  banana  of  a 
thing,  with  ends  pointing  downwards  stands  high 
over  the  earth  ten  kilometres  away  and  sees  all 
that  takes  place  in  the  streets. 

There  is  a  soldiers'  cemetery  to  rear  of  the 
last  block  of  buildings  where  the  dead  have  been 
shovelled  out  of  earth  by  shell  fire.  In  this  vil- 
lage the  dead  are  out  in  the  open  whilst  the  quick 
are  underground. 

How  fine  it  is  to  leave  the  trenches  at  night 
after  days  of  innumerable  fatigues  and  make  for 
a  hamlet,  well  back,  where  beer  is  good  and 


304  The  Red  Horizon 

where  soups  and  salads  are  excellent.  When 
the  feet  are  sore  and  swollen,  and  when  the  pack- 
straps  cut  the  shoulder  like  a  knife,  the  jour- 
ney may  be  tiring,  but  the  glorious  rest  in  a  musty 
old  barn,  with  creaking  stairs  and  cobwebbed 
rafters,  amply  compensates  for  all  the  strain  of 
getting  there. 

Lazily  we  drop  into  the  straw,  loosen  our  put- 
tees and  shoes  and  light  a  soothing  cigarette  from 
our  little  candles.  The  whole  barn  is  a  chamber 
of  mysterious  light  and  shade  and  strange  rust- 
lings. The  flames  of  the  candles  dance  on  the 
walls,  the  stars  peep  through  the  roof.  Eyes, 
strangely  brilliant  under  the  shadow  of  the 
brows,  meet  one  another  inquiringly. 

"Is  this  not  a  night?"  they  seem  to  ask.  "The 
night  of  all  the  world?" 

Apart  from  that,  everybody  is  quiet,  we  lie  still 
resting,  resting.  Probably  we  shall  fall  asleep 
as  we  drop  down,  only  to  wake  again  when  the 
cigarettes  burn  to  the  fingers.  We  can  take  full 
advantage  of  a  rest,  as  a  rest  is  known  to  the 
gloriously  weary. 

There  is  romance,  there  is  joy  in  the  life  of  a 
soldier. 

THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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